


Winter Lamb (The Happy Anticipation of Disaster)

by werebird



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Will Rising, Decisions, Dialogue Heavy, Investigations, Light Angst, Longing, Love Confessions, M/M, Psychological Warfare, Relationship Negotiation, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unsafe Sex, no dragon, or references to such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 72,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebird/pseuds/werebird
Summary: A year after Hannibal has been arrested, Will is called back into the field.“Alana thinks he’s trying to contact someone on the outside. God knows he’s got enough crazy fans out there,” Jack says with disgust. “Admirers. Potential copycats. Do you see why I need you, Will? I need you to save lives.”-- Set about a year after 'Digestivo'. --





	1. Chapter 1

“I need your help, Will.” Jack tries to keep his face from giving away his frustration, but Will can sense it nonetheless. Intuitively and overwhelmingly and he immediately averts his eyes to put some distance between Jack and himself.

Will can hear his dogs barking in the distance, caught up in their play fighting, and it fills him with so much familiarity that he relaxes a little, lets his shoulders down while the defenses shoot up in his mind.

“He’s being uncooperative,” Jack adds in the face of Will’s silence.

Will huffs and then grimaces. It's an attempt to smile. “Uncooperative,” Will repeats, eyes still focused on the silhouettes strolling over the fields, letting each letter roll of his tongue slowly.

“Alana thinks he’s trying to contact someone on the outside,” Jack goes on, tilting his head to get Will to look at him again. Unsuccessfully so. Will’s tired of looking. Tired of seeing what Jack wants. Tired of feeling compelled by his crooked mind to want the same thing. “God knows he’s got enough crazy fans out there,” Jack says with disgust. “Admirers,” he goes on. “Potential copycats. Do you see why I need you, Will? I need you to save lives.”

“Been there, done that,” Will says dismissively.

“Stop with that attitude, Will. I didn’t come here for you to sass me. I would have rather gone to anyone else, believe me, but there simply isn’t another person who can read Hannibal Lecter the way you can. Or at all. It has to be you. It’s out of my hands. Out of yours. You’ll either stop him from getting his hands into an easily impressed mind or we’ll see murder tableaux appearing soon enough. I’m sure of it. Alana is sure of it. She wouldn’t have sent me if it wasn’t important. You know her, Will. She’d never involve you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

“What makes you think he’ll be more cooperative with me? He’ll see right through your little game, Jack. And he’ll make you regret starting it. You know he will. He always does.”

“I need you to talk to him.”

“He wouldn’t want me to come because Uncle Jack sent me. He would only hear me out if I came out of my own desperation.” Will takes a deep breath before he adds a few shaky words. “My own needs.”

“What are you suggesting, Will?”

“Nothing. You can’t fool him. And neither can I."

Will can feel Jack's eyes on him, tickling his senses like ant feet on skin. Agitation is there, a dash of anger and confusion. Emotions, as clear as the air around them, but Will pretends not to notice. He's not sure if Jack has a full grasp on how he works yet. Even after all those years they know each other by now. After all, Jack has always preferred to stay blissfully ignorant about Will's perception of the world around him. It's better for him not to know. 

Jack clears his throat but it takes him ten more seconds to find the courage to speak. 

"These are your needs," Jack tells him head on. "Don't you want him to stop?"

"Hannibal Lecter," Will pauses, "will never just stop." He takes a careful sip from his steaming coffee. "Don't you know by now? As soon as an opportunity for chaos presents himself, Hannibal will take it. Has to take it. Out of _curiosity_ ," Will says with just a tad of disgust sprinkled on the last word. "Don't you hate it? Playing this game with him over and over again? I sure do. That's why I never looked back."

It's been short of fifteen months now since Hannibal had got down on his knees to declare that he wants Will to always know where to find him. Fifteen months since they've returned from Mason Verger's personally created hell. Fifteen months since Will had put an end to the endless chase. 

"Of course I am," Jack says, tugging on the collar of his coat. Losing his patience. "I'm not asking you to decide today. Take a day. Take a week, if you have to. Come by the FBI, look through the evidence, talk to Alana. I know you're tired, Will. All of us are. But he-," Jack rubs his forehead with two fingers, desperation palpable, "he bound us to each other, Will. If you'd like that or not. Lecter, he sealed this brotherhood with blood. Our blood, if you recall. You can't just turn your back and walk away."

"Is this a support group now? Victims of Hannibal Lecter? Hi, I'm Will and he tried to eat my brain," Will mocks, bitter taste on his tongue. 

"And what would be wrong with that?" Jack asks. "Every single one of us has been hurt. Humiliated. Betrayed. What makes you so much better than us, Will? What makes you special?"

The ugly waves of smug self satisfaction reach Will immediately. Checkmate. In no universe would Will want to admit to Jack -- again -- why _he_ is not like the others. Why he is not just another victim of Lecter's. He doesn't want to admit once more that the lines between victimhood and perpetration have long blurred when it comes to Lecter, his crimes, and Will's status of participation. 

"He's not going to talk to me," Will deflects. 

"You'll make him talk," Jack says, confidence underlining his words.

"Your determination has always been a convenient conspirator in limiting my choices," Will says, daring to glance over. 

"You've made it clear that when it comes to Lecter, you don't decide as much as things just _happen_." Jack raises his eyebrows. Defiance and curiosity radiating off him. "My determination just acts as a counter balance to the indiscrimination of your-," a thoughtful moment and a squint of his eyes, "happenings."

"You don't trust me, Jack?" Will asks in an attempt to force Jack to show his hand while he himself remains unwilling to put his cards on the table. 

"I trust your sense of morality, Will. I trust that you have since abandoned that part of you that wants to run with him." It's not a question, but Jack's filled with anticipation and uncertainty. 

"I have," Will tells him a bit flippant. "Left it right there in front of the porch. Where you picked it up and took it to Virginia. Then locked it up in Alana's cellar. And now you ask me to go visit that part. See what it's been up to."

"You've been able to resist the temptation of elopement twice now," Jack reminds him.

"Third time's a charm," Will mumbles.

"Is that a threat?" Jack asks. "Because I won't let you sharpen another knife Lecter's going to try to kill me with."

"He's slit the same knife through me."

"Not to kill you," Jack argues. "Out of the three of us, he wanted _you_ to live. You're the only one not on borrowed time here, Will."

"He's tried to kill me in Florence, if you recall. And if _I_ remember correctly, you were sitting across from me while he tried to open my skull with a bone saw." There's silence on Jack's end, verbally and emotionally. Guilt was what Will had expected. Pity even. Maybe a flash of pain. Residue of the empathy Jack experienced as he witnessed the scene all those months ago in Italy. But there's nothing. "He didn't want me to live then," Will adds.

"He didn't _want_ to kill you either."

"It had to happen," Will says, but more to himself. 

"A spectacle not to humiliate you-"

"But you," Will finishes. 

"It started with me, it had to end with me," Jack admits, still free from any trace of guilt. 

"You had to see me die, see me be consumed. Consume me. Feed off me. Your _greed_  had to be part of my death," Will lets his association run free like he hasn't in a long time. Looking at his own memory as if it was a crime scene. Blurred memories and traces of feelings shimmering over the long table. "A death suiting the life that preceded. Yours and mine. Ours. You had to choke on me. Because you couldn't cherish my _taste._ Yet, I couldn't see it. So I had to watch. Watch you disgust over finally having me. I chose you over him, but he was going to shove me so deep down your throat, you wouldn't have been able to digest me. I had to see you spit me back out."

"If he couldn't have you, neither could I," Jack says with the faintest smile on his lips. "He didn't want you to die. He couldn't leave you behind. Not alive. There's a difference, Will. A difference I didn't understand before Hannibal either."

"You want me to play bait again?" Will asks. "You want me to make him angry? Jealous, even? Make an appearance, side by side with you?"

"Would that be so bad?" 

"His jealousy might get me killed this time," Will tells him, trying to sound casual. 

"Did you attempt to stay away because of how deadly his company is?" Jack wonders. This time he's not waiting for an answer. "Or because of how captivating it is?" Jack waits for Will to meet his eyes. Wasting second after second. "Despite it being deadly?" 

"Do you think I owe you, Jack?" Will asks, following a hunch. "For calling him that night. For not killing him in Florence although you were the one who had the better chance. Do you think _I_ had it coming? What happened in Italy? I brought him back here. I brought him to you-"

"He brought himself to me. He surrendered. You let him go," Jack barks and now his lack of guilt makes sense to Will. 

"And now you came to collect my debt. Hermes himself came to lead me to the underworld. Is Alana going to carry me across the river to face Hades?" Will asks, scolding himself for not seeing it coming.

"I didn't come here to send you to hell, Will. I would have never let you walk into that fiery pit. Not alone," Jack tells him. 

"Unlike me?" Will asks. 

"You've had your reasons. All I ask of you now is to help us find the poor soul Hannibal Lecter has dug his claws into now. Abel Gideon, Rendall Tier, Mason Verger. You were the only one who survived the grip of the devil." Jack relaxes a little after the tension of the honesty that's been spoken has been released. 

"You think, I could tell them apart. The object of his mentoring desires. You think I could pick them out from a crowd," Will concludes. 

"You know what he's looking for. And how he would look for it. Maybe even how he'd prefer to contact said person." Jack takes a deep, cold breath. "He's got his eyes on someone, Will. I can feel it. He's looking for someone to take your place."

There's nervousness starting in Jack's left hand, crawling up his arm, but he shakes it off before it reaches his elbow. He knows what he's doing. Talking not to Will's reason but to something deep inside. If Hannibal's jealousy is deadly, Jack's not afraid to find out what form Will's jealousy will take. 

"Will you come?" Jack asks then, more self-assured. 

"It's not like you left me much choice," Will tells him. 

Jack clears his throat again and then waits for Will to meet his eyes. This time, Will does yield eventually, tips his glasses a little higher and faces Jack. "There wasn't a moment where I decided to come here and bring you back. I wasn't decided when I came here. I was deliberating," Jack goes on, abusing Will's own words. 

"You decided when I hesitated-," Will tries then. 

" _You_ decided," Jack interrupts him. "You decide to set things in motion. You decide to put all of us on the line. And then you decide that it should be me, the one bringing him down. In Baltimore. In Florence. Because you choose to hesitate. Every single time. Now, I decide that you set things in motion once more. And then maybe I'll follow through this time." 

Anger. Bitterness. Righteousness. 

They're all too familiar to Will. 

"You cannot calculate the consequences," Will tries a last time.

"We never could," Jack says and then exhales all his emotions into the air. 

"I need to look into the files first. _And_ talk to Alana."

"She'd be happy to see you, Will."

"Does she know?" Will asks. "That you came here."

"It might surprise you, but she was the one suggesting I came here."

It does surprise him. Surprisingly. Somehow, he'd still thought Alana to be looking out for him. To have his back.

"We've changed, Will," Jack says, reading him almost as well as Will himself would. He must really be showing what's on his mind. "Not all of us had the luxury to return into our old lives. As I said, yours is the only clock not ticking down. Though, I can tell you think, yours in the only one."

"I'll see you in Virginia, Jack." He gets up then. Has to, whistling with two fingers between his lips to call the dogs in. The rules have been changed and Will wasn't there to take notice. He needs to recharge.

Outwardly calm, but twitchy and unsure inside, he watches Jack climb back into his black SUV with the paralyzing feeling of being served. He's been played. And maybe this time, he did have it coming.  

 

* * * * * 

 

Inside, Will takes the liberty to add a generous slug of whiskey to his coffee before he sits down at the small table by the window glancing over to where Hannibal had sat the last time they were alone together. He can't fight the shudder that ghosts over his body at the memory. He's going to drive to Quantico in the morning, he's going to look at the files, talk to Alana, talk to Jack and then he's going to go home, feed his dogs and have another drink. He won't make a decision. Not now and not tomorrow about taking this on. About meddling with Hannibal's agenda. About giving in to Jack once more. About appeasing Alana. He's going to look at the evidence. And only after, see where it'll take him. 

 

* * * * * 

 

"This is all you got?" Will asks after opening the box marked with nothing but a seemingly random number, not giving away the content. 

"It's hard to collect evidence without knowing what to look for. Be thankful for what we managed to pile up," Jack says and sits back in his chair. It feels like he's trying to bring more physical distance between them, as if Will's proximity was threatening or uncomfortable. 

"Run me through it then," Will prompts him, hiding his gaze with the papers instead of baring it to Jack's face. 

"He was very sly this time, Will. We wouldn't have noticed if we hadn't been prompted."

"Prompted by whom?" Will asks, staring at the prints. 

"Frederick Chilton came to the FBI insisting that he was being threatened with murder. By Hannibal Lecter. Via articles in the Journal of Criminal Psychology," Jack's face twists a little. Saying these words still evoke the feeling of ridicule within him. He intertwines his hands in his lap, steadying himself, before he goes on. "We weren't keen on investigating. Especially knowing the history of reputation and relevance Dr. Chilton tried to gain by tying his name to Lecter's."

"What made you change your mind?" Will asks, glancing up, but somewhere above Jack's head. 

"It didn't reflect well upon the agency -- or me for that matter -- to disregard claims that the Chesapeake Ripper was still out for mayhem and slaughter. Apparently the FBI is in no position to disregard _the legacy,"_ Jack says in disgust, "of Hannibal Lecter. There was pressure, so to speak. From the authorities."

"Aren't you the authority in the Bureau?" Will asks, not bothering to pretend he's interested in making eye contact with Jack anymore. "Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

"I answer to the I.G. like every member of the agency," Jack reminds him and Will can sense his repulsion at the thought of Kade Prurnell and her colleagues at the Office of the Inspector General. It's an aversion he shares considering his own experiences with her.

"How did they find out you were unappreciative of Hannibal's _legacy?"_ It had been attempt to connect to Jack, but when Will spells it out his voice fails to capture the satire and absurdity of the term entirely. 

"Freddie Lounds broke the story," Jack informs him. 

"Of course she did," Will says as his eyes catch a glimpse of the TattleCrime logo in between the loose stack of papers. He skims through the articles and fishes the one out that's got the oldest date written on it. " Ignorance is Bliss? - FBI in Bed with the Ripper. Inside the deadly liaison that threatens life of highly acclaimed psychiatrist," Will reads. "Despite his inspiring bravery, Dr. Chilton says he's afraid. Afraid for all the innocent lives who may be next in line, vulnerable and defenseless, falling victim to Jack Crawford's recklessness and incompetence first, then victims to _Hannibal The Cannibal_." Will can't help but laugh. "She even added a footnote," he tells Jack. "Hannibal the Cannibal, Dr. Chilton's brilliant and spine-chilling psychoanalysis of the Chesapeake Ripper is still available in stores for only $34.99." Jack huffs dismissively but Will has no trouble imagining the consequences Jack had to deal with after being name-dropped in another one of Freddie Lounds' articles. "Tasteless."

"Ridiculous," Jack corrects him. 

"But it had base? The accusation?" Will asks, knowing he wouldn't be here if there hadn't been substantial reason for Jack to doubt and subsequently surrender his own evaluation of the situation at hand. Or maybe chasing after Hannibal for years, being tricked and played and abused had taken more of Jack's confidence than Will had noticed. Being preoccupied with licking his own wounds. 

"Key words, patterns, possible codes in at least three of Lecter's published articles. I'm not in agreement with all the accusations Dr. Chilton articulated but I, -- we --," Jack corrects himself, "have noticed some," he pauses, searching for the right words. Something's got him off track. "Inconsistencies, too," he continues. "In writing, sentences, word choices, structure. It could be a message, Will. Not necessarily a threat. Not necessarily directed at Chilton. But I think he's communicating. Alana agrees. They're in there too. Articles, analyses, assessments from different experts. My personal report. Take all the time you need to go through it. I want you to be absolutely sure, once you tell me, whether or not this is Hannibal plotting another coup."

Will nods, but his mind is already fogged with the familiar formality of Hannibal's words. With the rhythm of his speech, his seductive sentences and vivid metaphors. Seemingly bare and honest, yet veiled and heavily filled with agenda. They weigh down the pages in Will's hand.

 

* * * * *

 

It's like diving through in a pool of paper from which Will only manages to pull his head out hours after he's closed the door behind Jack in need to go over the evidence in private. For over a year he's avoided reading anything Hannibal had wrote, not allowing him back into his head, not after successfully reclaiming his inner voice as his own. 

He hears him clearly now -- the low pitch, the foreign accent, the pretentious tone --  it's penetrating, invading, inflating. Yet, it's intimate and profound. Fervently and feverish. Wading through Will's memories, shifting them around uncomfortably. 

 

* * * * *

 

"It's good to see you again, Will." Alana greets him with a sincere smile and a gentle pat on his elbow. 

"Do you ever get tired of saying this?" Will asks, knowing the moment he's spoken that he sounds incredibly rude. 

"Do you ever get tired of running away from us?" Alana asks right back, not perceptibly hurt by Will's bluntness.

"Probably not," Will admits and tries a smile himself. "It's good to see you too, Alana," he says, though more out of social desirability than genuine glee.  

The apprehension of uncomfortable silence hangs between them, so thick that Will's throat itches with the need to cough. 

"Jack found me again," he says, voice more weak than usually. 

"So I heard." She's still smiling at him. A somewhat unsettling warmth in her face. "We could really use your help," she tells him honestly. "I didn't know if you'd come. Part of me was hoping you wouldn't. Was hoping you'd stay as far away from him as possible."

"And part of me wishes I hadn't come," Will admits. 

"Yet, here you are."

"That other part of you must be delighted," he says and then sits down on one of the visitors chairs opposite her office desk. "The selfish part, I figure." 

"After everything, I can't help but wonder, if it isn't the same part that lead you here" She sits down opposite of him, leaning back in a similar way Jack did just a few hours earlier. Distance. Physically, emotionally. And Will can't help but wonder where the trust they once shared went. 

"It's not making me happy to be here," Will tells her, carefully placing a stack of files on the table between them. 

"Happy, no. Alive?" she asks. "Did Jack kiss you awake?"

"I wasn't sleeping," Will insists. 

"What have you done in the past year, Will?" Alana continues. "We've all moved on with our lives. Jack, Margot, me. What did you do?"

"I moved on. Trust me, Alana."

"Your life's been on hold."

"At least my life," Will starts, anger making his voice shake, "doesn't revolve around him anymore. None of you have _moved on._ All of you were forming lives in a hive built around your queen. And she's sitting right there in the center waiting to claim the lives she granted you."

"Why did you come then, Will? If not to protect these lives you call condemned. Did you come here to mock us? Or to join us?"

"I came here, because Jack thinks I owe him. For what happened in Baltimore," Will tells her.

"And you agree with him?" Alana asks. "You feel burned with that debt."

"There was a time," Will tries as calmly as possible, "where you wouldn't have so shamelessly analyzed me. In fact, you wouldn't even have allowed your own thoughts to follow that route. Good to see that you changed now, Alana. That you don't hesitate anymore."

"I don't own the luxury of hesitation anymore. None of us do."

"Because of what Hannibal did? Or because of what I did?" Will asks. 

There is a split second where Will believes to see her hesitating despite what she'd just said, but it's not doubt as much as careful, calculated contemplation. 

"More times than not your actions have been so entwined, so coalesced, that it's hard to differentiate between the consequences of his actions and yours," Alana admits. "Isn't that where we agree?"

Will nods, feeling oddly naked and vulnerable under her gaze and in the presence of her thoughts. "Maybe that's why I'm here. Reduce the consequences of what has been set in motion," he says, recalling Jack's words. "By him, by me, by Jack -- it's all the same."

"Bearing the consequences has not been the same though. We were struck in different ways," she reminds him before taking a deep breath, calming herself, steering into friendlier waters. Away from the memories. "If Frederick is right... If Hannibal is coming for him. Then he's coming for me. And my family. I can't allow that."

Unwillingly, but unable to stop himself, Will glances down Alana's body to where the child came to life, grew into a living person and was subsequently born from. There's nothing to see though, not anymore. And a past version of him is thankful that he never had to see Alana carry someone else's child. A child he wouldn't raise. A fact, his present self is equally thankful for. 

"He's fine," Alana says. She knows him too well. "Was born at home. Came a week early, but he's doing great. As beautiful as Margot. And as smart," she says, love filling her words. "I can already tell." 

"I have no doubts about that," Will says, not knowing what would be an appropriate reply. After all, parents tend to see their children in a different way than anyone else. The way he looked at Abigail. "He's lucky. About where he was born into," he tells her, thinking about the misfortune he's brought on every child he wanted to take on. 

"Is he?" Alana asks. "He was born of the devil's whim. And he's looming over his head ever since. All our heads."

"Why would Hannibal help you bear a child only to take it from you?" Will asks with only one foot into this conversation, the other stuck in the swamp of his thoughts. 

"Same reason he saved Abigail only to murder her again. Same reason he gave you a child once," she reminds him angrily, swallowing hard before going on. "With Margot. And took it away. Have you forgotten about it? All of it? He likes to play God."

He hasn't forgotten. But it's his present self once more that feels lighter knowing it was relieved of the responsibility.  "It's one thing," Will starts, floating between awareness for the current exchange and his ongoing, ever-present internal dialogue, "to take it from me. It's another thing taking it from you. It doesn't have the same," he grimaces in disgust, "quality."

"Is that how he sees it?" Alana asks, still oddly cautious about calling Hannibal by his name. As if there was a chance he could hear them. There isn't. Still, his presence is always lingering where Will goes. So he gets it. Gets how he's ghosting in the room, echoing horror and dismay. The sensation is so familiar to Will, he almost finds comfort in it. Never astray, never alone.

"It's not inevitable," Will says, staring down at the files. "Not with you."

"He's going to keep his promise. He's going to kill me." 

"You came after him," Will says, frowning over how much he sounds like a spiteful child himself. 

"I've always tried to protect you." He can tell from her tone that she's in disbelief over his specific perception of events. His endorsement. His loyalties. "But it's all the same to you isn't it? What I want for you? What he wants for you? You don't distinguish as the sentiment is the same."

"No." Will shakes his head. "No, no," he mumbles. "Not the same."

Alana takes another deep breath and tries to lean even further back. She folds her hands in her lap, like an after-image of Jack, protecting her womb from his invasive glances. Will aches to hide from her in return, but can't quite find a way to make himself less visible to her. Less readable. So instead he retreats back into his thoughts as she speaks.

"I wonder which one you deem more genuine," she says but they both know it's rhetorical. "Will you help me, Will? Will you look after me and my family?" 

"Hannibal wouldn't send a message to Chilton," Will tells her. "He wouldn't grant him the satisfaction of attention. When he's going to kill him, it'll be reflecting of Frederick's character. Pathetic. Not spectacular."

Alana considers it for a moment. "It was arguably spectacular the last time he tried," she says.

"Convenient," Will prompts. "Not spectacular. A procedural purpose. He was shot. Was meant to be shot. Nothing as impersonal as a gun."

"I shot Hannibal," Alana says then. "I would have. If he hadn't taken my bullets. You gave me the gun."

"To protect you," Will insists. 

"Something more personal might have been more subtle. More successful?" she wonders out loud. 

"I didn't think you'd be comfortable with something more personal," Will admits. 

"Because killing each other is more intimate than sleeping together?" she asks unashamed. Her demeanor doesn't change. She's not getting defensive, not getting coy. Not even on Will's behalf. 

Will's neck feels incredibly stiff, yet he nods before his muscles twitch and force his head to jerk aimlessly a couple of times. 

"How is he going to come after me, Will? Impersonal, with a gun?" She seems genuinely curious. He knows it's a trap. Once he speaks, she'll know what Will sees inside his mind over and over again. "Or am I worth some intimacy?" she taunts. "What quality does my death carry?"

"Like dew clinging to a blade of grass as the sun takes its place high in the sky. Vanishing in its heat."

She doesn't move but he feels the change within her. 

"You sound just like him," she says. 

"You were asking for his vision," he reminds her. 

"You owe me too, you know. Not for Baltimore. That was my own choice. But for Muskrat Farm. _I_ saved your life. _I_ saved Hannibal's life. He may have repaid me with a child. Now it's your turn to compensate," she says, much colder now although her voice slips into his ears like honey. "Is he communicating with someone?"

"Yes."

* * * * *

 

She calls Jack, her eyes not leaving Will throughout the entire conversation, but he can't meet them anymore. He doesn't have to look though to notice the changes in their exchange. They're not acquaintances anymore, Alana and Jack. Not colleagues. Or fellow sufferers. There's wrath in Will, and repulsion in the midst of the eerie lingering residue of Hannibal's presence. The injustice of opportunities. Kinship blooming where friendship was buried. A garden of humanity over a cold grave that harbors but monsters and death. 

"He's on his way," Alana tells him after she'd hung up. 

"Did Jack ask you to come here? Work for the academy again? Teach and profile psychopaths?" Will asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder where the glass door shows the inverted letters of her name. "Aren't you busy enough guarding the devil and raising your son?"  

She gives him a condescending smile and says nothing. He probably deserved that. 

"How are your dogs, Will?" she asks eventually. 

"Fine," he tells her. 

"It's the luxury of men to drop everything knowing a woman will clean up the mess and tie those loose ends," she says. "It was all handed back to you. _I_ handed it back to you. While I had to rebuild my own life. And help Jack rebuild his life. After Bella was gone. After Italy. Where were you, Will? When I was cleaning up your mess?"

She knows she's got him by his balls, rightfully so, and Will's admitting defeat with another nod as Jack barges through the door. He greets Alana with a quick smile and a flashing expression of gentle affection. When he turns to Will, his face closes up ever so slightly.

"Are you sure?" he asks, eyebrows drawn together in a serious look. "He's reaching out to someone."

"Not Chilton," Will says, motionless and _e_ motionless. Spitting out information like a computer. "He's not worth the effort."

"So someone else then?" Jack asks for reassurance. 

"There's no-," Will takes a moment to find the right word, "substance though. In the articles he wrote. He could very well be playing with you, Jack. He could have put that stuff in there to rile you up."

"Make us look one direction," Alana interjects, "while planning something else?"

"A diversion?" Jack clarifies the question.

"I'm not sure," Will admits. "It doesn't feel like him," he says, well aware of what it means to Jack and Alana to hear him say these words. "He protects what is personal. These hints, these messages... They're too blunt. They don't mean anything to him. He's playing, but I don't know what game yet."

"Are you willing to find out?" Jack asks, face stern and serious. "Go down that road again?

Will dares a glance towards Alana, who had sat up a little straighter once Jack had entered the room. No need for distance there.

She waits Will out patiently and far more calm than she'd been just a few minutes ago. Maybe Jack is indeed the bedrock she chose to rebuild her house on. And now they're offering him steady ground once more, a way out of the marshes of his past. 

"Do you trust me, Jack?" Will asks. "Do you think I can face him and return? Alive?" he adds, knowing that he could well enough have meant it another way. 

"I trust that you can be returned," Jack tells him. "Alive." He smiles, as if this time  _he_ meant it entirely different. "I don't want you to work alone this time, Will. You work better when you're not alone."

"Better? As in more effective? Or more controlled?" Will asks, feeling not just suspicion but agitation at the idea of working with someone who doesn't know his history. Their history.

"It's not someone off the field," Alana says gently. Damned be her talent for observation. "It's someone familiar with the," a careful pause, "situation."

"You?" Will asks her. 

"No," Jack cuts in. "Miriam Lass."

 

* * * * *

 

"Miriam Lass?" Will asks as he walks by Jack's side, back to his office, where she's waiting to meet them. "Is this another one of your support groups?" 

"You'd rather investigate with someone else? I'm telling you, there are agents licking their fingers in anticipation of getting their hands on Lecter and his schemes. Do you think they'll be more considerate of your _relationship_ with him than Lass?" He spits out the word 'relationship' as if it offends him personally. It probably does.

"Don't you think she'd gotten too close?" Will asks nervously. 

"Like you?" Jack wonders. "Like me? Or Alana? Dr. Chilton? We've all been there. If you ask me it's given us advantage. We know Lecter as personal and intimately as he knows us. He's spent two years with Miriam Lass. Conscious memories or not. You remembered. So will she. And it'll give us an invaluable advantage."

"He saved her for last, Jack," Will reminds him in honest concern.

"We're all on his list," Jack just tells him and stops in his track to face Will. "She tells me, she's ready and I believer her." He puts his palm gently against Will's chest." She's good, Will. She could feel the Ripper. She would have caught him, if he hadn't gotten to her first. She was ready to profile him when no one else was." 

"You really think she's the right person," Will says. "To return me?" he asks mirroring Jack's words. 

"She survived him-"

"No," Will interrupts. "He let her live. _He_ returned her. Only _he_ can return me."

Jack eyes Will carefully. "Where did I lose you?" Jack asks. "When did you go from telling me you would catch him, track him and trick him and bring him down, to telling me that only _he_ can let you go and bring you back. When did that happen, Will? When did you stop relying on me and instead started relying on Hannibal?"

"Does Miriam still rely on you?" Will asks. "Did you ever tell her? How you stopped looking?" 

"Are you purposefully trying to get to me, Will?" Jack points an angry finger at him now. "To hurt me?" He huffs and shakes his head as he lets his hand fall to his side. "Miriam knows I did what every FBI agent would have done in my place. I've carried my guilt. My regrets. My grieve. But I didn't let it affect my work. Her and me, we're on the same page. Whatever uncertainty torments her, disappointment or desolation she carries within herself -- towards me, because of me -- she won't let it affect her work. And I ask you to do the same. No," he corrects himself. "I request of you to do the same."

"Are you sure you didn't let it affect your work?" Will presses. 

"Goddammit, Will. I let it affect my personal life. Those last," he fights back tears, "precious moments I was given with Bella. At times I couldn't be there for her, because I was too caught up in my own misery. But my work? Never. I listened to you despite what I wanted to hear. And it was painful. Show some regards, Will. Consideration. If not for me, for Bella. And for what Miriam has been through."

"You don't know what he did to her. To her thoughts. Objectives." He's bordering on cruelty, but Will can't stop himself. Some things need to be said. Personal sympathies aside. 

"Watch your words, Will," Jack warns. "You're here, she's here. Hannibal messed with your head just as much. There's no telling if you're going to snap on me." The 'again' is hovering unspoken in the air between them. "I'm going on a hunch. That's all Lecter left in this godforsaken place. Hunches and leaps. Don't you know them well, Will? Maybe this time, I'm the one making jumps no one can explain."

"Alright then, Jack" Will says blandly. Somehow he feels as if they're all standing in a circle, unknowingly, yet ready for a trust fall and not sensing that they're going to end up on the ground. It's bad enough not to know who to trust, but even worse not to know who's putting all their trust in you. 

"If you have a hard time seeing her as a fellow agent," Jack tells him, "look at her the way Lecter did. Even he wasn't able to disregard her. Disrespect her."

 

* * * * *

 

"Miriam," Jack greets her with a nod and a pseudo-professional handshake which, given their history, stands out in the scenery like a single tree in between wasteland. 

She's stiff, nervous, uncomfortable. Hardly any different from the last time Will has seen her. Her face is a little fuller, eyes not as dead as they used to be. Will can see the traces of Hannibal's influence on her. And although he hadn't met her before she ran into the Ripper, he can see -- and feel -- the ways in which he changed her. Not unlike himself. 

"Sir," she greets Jack before extending her hand to Will. The one Hannibal didn't take from her. As payment for Jack's long lost hope. "Will," she adds with an appropriate smile. 

"Miss Lass," Will says, averting his eyes. Not so he wouldn't see. But because he doesn't want her to take notice of their similar marks. Visible or invisible. Palpable and real in either way. 

"Please, call me Miriam," she offers and Will nods in acknowledgement before neatly maneuvering his body behind Jack's frame so he'd be out of focus. 

"It wasn't just an empty accusation," Jack tells her. "Dr. Chilton seems to be right. Will agrees that Dr. Lecter is reaching out to someone. I want you two to investigate as discussed."

"As discussed?" Will interrupts. 

"As discussed," Jack repeats. "You go in together, you return together. You report back to me as soon as you got new information. And Will," he starts waiting for Will to look up, "no seeing Lecter unless I authorized it."

"A hall pass?" Will asks. 

As expected, Jack throws him an unimpressed look but to Will's surprise Miriam honors his sarcasm with a light chuckle right behind Jack's shoulder. 

"This isn't a joke, Will. I mean it. Lecter's cell is off limits until I give green light," Jack stresses. 

"And when will that be?" Will asks. 

"Not now," Jack just says. 

"Where would you have us start then, Jack?" Will presses. "Poking in the dark? He could be talking to anyone. Why not start the investigation at the source?"

"Because he'll see you coming for miles," Jack tells him. "You can go see him once we've gained some advantage."

"This is ridiculous, Jack," Will says, shaking his head. 

"You need to recover a mind set, Will?" Jack asks impatiently. "Find another way!"

"I need to recover reception. Get attuned again. To figure out who else is listening in," Will admits. 

"You think, you'll be able to know who else he's communicating with by having a friendly conversation? Good old times, huh?" Jack's losing his patience again, not used to Will's wayward demands anymore. 

"Yes," Will insists. 

"How does that even work?" Jack asks, throwing a puzzled look back and forth between Will and Miriam. 

"It's not easily explained," Will says through gritted teeth. 

"Try me," Jack tells him. 

"He-," Will starts and pauses for internal deliberation. "He and I-," he goes on, but it still doesn't sit right. "Cohesive relationships have the effect of synchronized communication. Expression. Language. We adapt from who gifts us attention and recognition. When we share, we mimic who we share with. To connect. If he was talking to someone like that, I'd know simply by the unfamiliar way he'd talk to me."

"And you could tell who that other person is?" Jack wonders. "By association."

"As silhouetted as looking at a crime scene. I'd get a sense of who they are." Will glances at Miriam and is once again surprised by how attentive she's listening. Her curiosity isn't psychological though. Not like Alana's. Nor is it selfish or sympathetic. It's practical. Assertive. She's taking notes of his skills, mapping the realm of his functionality. Assessing where her scope of perception ends. And his begins.

He likes it. Because it's void of emotion. A simple act of task distribution. 

"I'm tempted to agree, Will," Jack admits. "But talking to him isn't a one way street. And you'd be reveling as much as him. I can't risk that. I need _something_ , Will. Anything that makes us less vulnerable. I need at least some odds in our favor."

"Looking at the files is inconclusive, Jack. It's a dead end," Will reminds him.

"Investigations don't start at the source," Miriam interjects. "They start where evidence surfaces."

"Meaning?" Jack asks. 

"We start by talking to Frederick Chilton," Miriam clarifies.

"It's not him," Will says, because he doesn't need to see his insufferable character in person to be absolutely sure about that. 

"Yet Lecter is pointing at him," Miriam counters and Will feels a tang of indignation flaring in his stomach. 

"To toy with us," Will argues. "Put the lure right in our faces, but we can't see the fisher who hooked it."

"Biting the lure will take us straight to him," Miriam says, quick but calm. And Will feels staggered by it. 

"Strung along on the hook," Will remarks. "And death right around the corner."

"Enough," Jack barks to break their exchange. "I stand with Miriam. Talk to Chilton. See where it leads. If you return empty handed, we can revisit your hall pass."

 

* * * * *

 

"Heard you're not big on small talk." Miriam doesn't look at him, watches the traffic ahead of them instead.  She left her nervousness with Jack, her discomfort too. The stiffness remains though. Her collected posture. Stony. Impersonal. Like a stature. And just as tough. Alana's words ring in his ears. His male privilege of being unprofessional. Janus-faced and rude. Anti-social. And he could still be considered the FBI's most valuable asset. He had to lose his mind before he lost professional credentials. She cannot pour her moods and morals out. Not like him. Would he have ever been able to hold it together like her?

The volvo's not used to passengers. Human passengers that is. It's big enough to fit all of Will's dogs. The sole purpose of its size.

"Or talk at all?" she asks. 

"I used to see a psychiatrist," Will says. "For conversations."

"Did it help?" she asks, as if Will's psychiatrist hadn't been the Chesapeake Ripper. The hand that cut off her arm. The voice that turned her into a murderer.

And him.

"If it did, would you still need to ask?"

"Did you ever think of getting a new one?" she asks. 

"I'm not quite comfortable," Will admits. "Opening up to someone. Anyone. Letting myself be heard. Be seen," he says, his voice unstable. Oh, how he craves to be seen. 

"I could give recommendations," she tells him absently. Unmoved by his words. Not everyone knows what it's like to be truly recognized. Have another human being be fully aware of who we are.   

"You got a name?" he asks. 

"Plenty." It's the first crack in her stone cold exterior. The first she allows. Allows Will to witness. "A long list actually. I'm not a regular case, so to speak."

"Neither am I," Will tells her. And so it presents itself: an opportunity to connect. "Nothing for regular psychiatrists to digest." No pun intended. 

"Volatility, irregularities, unpredictability," she says. "If the sample's large enough, patterns appear even in chaos."

"The rules of disorder," Will adds. 

"Once is a happenstance, two is coincidence" Miriam counts, tying their experiences. Allowing them to be shared.

"Almost a pattern," Will says. He's having trouble focusing on driving and not withdrawing into his thoughts. "Abnormality in the face of abnormality, is normality," he recalls. 

"So we're regular patients?" she asks. 

"Normal patients. Not regular," Will corrects.

She considers his words for a moment before she nods. "There are irregular psychiatrists," she offers. 

"Have you met any lately?" Will asks. "Apart from him?"

"Only in the past year." 

"Was Alana your therapist?"

He had been wondering since Jack had mentioned Miriam's name. He can't help but see a version of Abigail in her. Back then, Alana had taken her on. Had felt some form of responsibility in her recovery. A different kind of responsibility. Not the one Will had felt. Familial. Or the one Hannibal had felt. For guidance and mentoring.

"She was. For a while. Before, you know-" she hesitates. Another crack. "You know."

He does know. Before she met him too. The real him. 

"She did my psych eval though. When I came back to the FBI," Miriam tells him.

"She cleared you?" Will asks.

"Nope," she says casually. "Special agent. Same as you. Unstable. Not fit for field work."

"And yet here we are," he says unimpressed. 

"Yet here we are," she repeats his words. "Two people with two degrees in psychology. Trained in criminology. Working for the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit. Years and years of experiences. And still unfit to do their jobs. Stripped of their powers. And unable to do small talk." She laughs a little at her own words. Will feels the sentiment spilling over to him. "Ironically because we ran into the same psychiatrist."

"Not the only thing we have in common," Will adds. Not the only person.

"Our paths have been rearranged. Years apart, but still in similar ways," she says.

"He wanted us to meet," Will tells her. "Not for our sake though. For Jack's. We were part of his guilt. His humiliation."

"Do you feel it at all?" she asks. "Survivor guilt? In the face of his other victims."

"We weren't victims of the Ripper. Not like that. Not victims who survived, Miriam. We weren't meant to die. Not then. Not yet."

"Would he have humiliated me?" she asks and Will can tell she's scared of what he'll answer. Yet she has to know. 

"No," Will says with certainty. "He respected you." 

"Will he?" she asks then. "Humiliate me. When it'll come to it."

"That's entirely up to you," Will tells her, knowing how it makes him sound.

A shaking breath is the only reply from the passenger seat. 

 

* * * * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Nice place," Miriam comments when Will pulls up at Chilton's driveway.

"I guess if you move due to _traumatic events_ it's recommended to upgrade," Will says, taking only a quick look at the ostentatious building in front of them. "A peacock's nest," he adds appalled.

"Do you believe where we live tells something about who we are?" she asks. Her body seems relaxed but the fingers she got on the door fidget almost imperceptibly with the handle. She's good at hiding her inner state. Better than anyone Will has ever met. Except for Hannibal maybe.

"Usually it tells us everything we need to know," Will says, allowing a moment of recognition to his inner longing to go not home, but to Baltimore, Lecter's practice with its high ceilings and large windows. The smell of antiques and new books. The touch of those leather chairs, the sleek surface of Hannibal's desk. Not home, but heart. Pulsing conversations. And vitalizing revelations. Indignation and ignition. A timeless place in his mind palace, but the thought of dust settling in the arteries of their center piece fills him with anguish. "Where do you live, Miriam?"

She throws him a lazy smile before her composure finally reaches the tips of her fingers at last and she clicks the door, pushing it wide open in one swift motion at the same time as she slides out of the car. Far more gracefully than Will manages a second later.

The cold February breeze tousles his hair and he takes a deep breath to rid his memory of a past life.

They're half way to the doorstep when the front door opens and Will sees red. Crimson curls and burgundy boots. A coral scarf and a coat shimmering between fuchsia and maroon in the afternoon sun: Freddie Lounds.  
Even her cheeks glow in apricot as her ruby lips pull into a smirk.

"Will Graham," she says with wicked delight. "If you're back that means Jack Crawford has finally admitted his incompetence. So tell me, Will, what gruesome forms of death and dismay did you bring with you this time?" She glances at Miriam. "I see," she says. "The psycho type."

"What are you doing here, Freddie?" Will asks. "Writing another article on Dr. Chilton's concern for the public safety?"

"Am I under investigation?" Freddie asks.

"Not yet," Miriam tells her, and smiles at her words.

"Didn't you want the FBI to take action?" he asks. "With that fame-whoring article you two fabricated together?"

"Jack sending the devil's right hand," she says with a finger pointed at Will, "and his left," a nod to Miriam before she adds, "no offense," in a condescending tone with a glance at the prosthetic that now constitutes Miriam's left arm. "It shows how much concern he has for Frederick's life. Who wouldn't send the agent who shot him in the head and the man who promised him he'll end up on Lecter's table more than once. It's lovely, really, how the FBI treats those whose well-being is endangered by Crawford's inability to gag Lecter for good-"

"Asking for someone's death, Freddie?" Will asks talking over her. "Wasn't it Frederick himself who made sure Dr. Lecter would be spared the death penalty."

"People make mistakes," she says with a smile. "People make a lot of mistakes when it comes to the Chesapeake Ripper. Frederick, Jack Crawford, Miss Bloom. You. Will you learn from them, Will?" she asks. "Frederick has."

"Have you?" Will asks with a mischievous grin. She always got his blood boiling even before opening her mouth. Her entire existence is blasphemy.

"Is that a threat?" Freddie asks.

"Just a question," Will tells her. "If Chilton's spending his time with you, I'm not so sure he has," Will adds. "And considering your last article, I don't think you have either. You've really outdone yourself, Freddie. Remind me again what happened the last time you two went after someone you perceived to be the ripper. If I'm not mistaken Frederick got his guts handed to him. Quite literally."

"I kept him alive," Freddie says unbothered. "That's more than you can say for yourself. I'm sure Abigail would be appalled-"

"Don't you dare use her name for your pretensions-"

"Will," Miriam says gently and uses her left arm just as gentle against his chest to hold him back. Will hadn't noticed the threatening step he had taken towards Freddie.

"Smart girl," Freddie says to Miriam.

"I'm doing my job," she tells her, ice cold and Will's starting to like it. It cools his temper. Maybe in another life they would have been a good match. At the time Jack first came to ask him about the Shrike. Maybe it would have been easier to look. With her looking with him.

"Are you sleeping with him, Freddie?" Will asks, feeling bold with the idea that Miriam will keep him from ripping Freddie's tongue out. "How does that feel? Being in bed with an arrogant, manipulative coward."

"I don't know," Freddie says, her mood perfectly undisturbed. "I'm sure Dr. Lecter knows, seeing as he's always got you to warm his sheets."

"Could you sink any lower?" Will wonders out loud.

"If I slept with you," she says and pushes a handful of curls over her shoulder.

"Who haven't you slept with for a good story?" Will spits.

"Again, the answer is you," Freddie says and Miriam chuckles at that. He can't blame her.

"Pathetic," Will says although he knows he already lost.

"Your attempt at slut shaming is pathetic," Freddie tells him. "Maybe next time consider your audience for your misogynist thoughts, will you?" She pauses, then adds, "Will?" She smiles --in that condescending way she always smiles at him-- at the feeling of his name rolling off her tongue twice. "I don't think your _colleague_ appreciates it." She looks at Miriam.

"I appreciate being able to do my job," Miriam says with a nod towards Chilton's house. "And feminism being brought up not only when it's convenient," she adds in a dry tone.

"Goodbye Freddie," Will adds, trying to ride off on Miriam's little wave of victory. Dignity isn't his strongest trait anymore.

 

 * * * * *

 

"Maybe you should go first," Miriam says as they stand in front of Chilton's door.

"I think you're more professional," Will says, only paying her half his attention as he watches Freddie get into her car.

"I also shot him," Miriam reminds him again.

"Not by your own choice," Will tells her.

"It was my finger that pulled the trigger."

"Action and guilt are only overlapping circles," Will says. "There is room for either to exist alone."

"If there wouldn't be guilt," Miriam considers. "There'd still be regret."

"Do you think he holds a grudge?" Will asks, impatience spilling from every pore. This isn't his day.

"Do you?" she asks with a glance down to Will's stomach. Down to the scar. It itches.

"We too easily associate scars with offenses that desire forgiveness. This isn't one of them," he says and rings the door bell.

Miriam draws a harsh breath beside him, bracing herself for the conversation to come.

 

* * * * *

 

When Dr. Chilton opens the door he allows himself a split second of surprise before he puts on a fake smile and takes a step back.

"Miss Lass," he says. "Will," he holds out a hand but Will ignores the gesture. "Well, good to see you too," Chilton says and lets his hand fall to his side. "I assume you were send here by Jack Crawford?" he asks. "And I hope I'm not mistaken and you actually came here to kill me," he says with an awkward smile. "Again."

"We were," Miriam says, insecurities vanished or buried. They're gone that's all that Will can tell. "Send by Jack Crawford. We came to ask about Hannibal Lecter. And the accusations you made against him."

"Come in," he says and waits for them to step inside. "They're hardly accusations considering the overwhelming evidence," Chilton says, closing the door behind them.

"Excuse, me. Overwhelming evidence?" Will asks.

Chilton smiles at him. "Do you have trouble understanding me, Will? I heard Hannibal tried to open your scull with a bone saw?"

"If anything that helped me understand," Will says out of spite. He's not sure if the resentment he feels comes from Chilton or himself.

"You are an interesting case," Chilton says and considers Will for a moment. "Some form of stockholm syndrome. Tendencies towards masochism. The empathy disorder leaves you vulnerable to external influence. Paired with identity anxieties and boundary issues. Almost a pornographic ideal for a-," he searches for the right word. "For whatever Lecter is. There's a masturbatory quality in what you present to him. Irresistible yet too good to be touched. Classic idolatry in serial murderers."

"Seems to me it's more exciting to you, Frederick," Will says.

"Fascinating," Chilton corrects him. "It's the appeal of the grotesque that got all of us into the field of criminology."

"I came to save lives," Will says.

"And yet you ended up taking them instead," Chilton reminds him. "Funny innit?"

"Depends on your humor," Will just says.

"Dr. Chilton," Miriam interrupts them. "Can you tell us more about the threats you feel Dr. Lecter has expressed against you."

"Gladly," Chilton says. "May I ask," he starts, "it's not going to trigger any, let's say, harmful flashbacks, will it?"

"I can assure you Dr. Chilton that I am absolutely capable, physically and mentally, to handle this investigation," she says, not looking at Will at all.

"Have you talked to a therapist?" Chilton ask, no concerns for privacy.

"I have," Miriam assures him.

"PTSD?" Chilton asks.

"Among other things," she admits, unyielding to his ministrations.

"Interesting," Chilton comments. "Do you still feel him?" he asks. "Breathing down the neck? Whispering into the ear?"

"The traces he left with me, I can separate them from my own conscience with clarity," she tells him and Will can't deny he envies her. And he can't say if it's because of her confidence to separate Lecter from herself of because of the traces he left with her. Something recognizable to separate yourself from. "And I have learned to not pay attention to any false memories still occurring," she goes on. "Although, they do not occur in my woken state. Not anymore"

"Nightmares, huh?" Chilton asks.

"I believe the professional term is alternative residual coping in traumatic amnesia."

"It's not," Chilton says and shows her an ugly grin. "Glad to see you've recovered some stability though."

Considering what Will has seen of her, 'some stability' seems to be a horrendous understatement. But Will stays silent. He's got a feeling Miriam's not looking for someone defending her honor.

"Thank you, Sir," she says. "Now, may I ask for your assessment of the situation?"

"You may," Chilton tells her. "Hannibal Lecter is going to kill me and he told me so through his rebuttals. For the record, they lack scientific relevance and are of reprehensible and abject content."

"How did he threaten you?" Miriam asks.

"He wrote me messages," Chilton says.

"Please," Will interjects. "Words that coincidentally appear under each other can hardly be considered a message."

"I take it you read them then," Chilton asks.

"Read the reviews too, Frederick. What was that one line again? That I liked in particular? 'Dr. Lecter explores the field with such sharp clinical precision, it cuts painfully definite through every limp conclusion previously drawn by Dr. Chilton.' Yeah, I think that was it."

"Misguided idolatry, like I said" Chilton says. "I know for a fact that Lecter demanded his formatting not to be changed. This isn't coincidence."

"What did the messages say?" Miriam asks. Will knows she has seen them too. He admires her patience.

"The first one, it said: Tick Tock, Frederick."

Miriam's eyes widen but she quickly composes herself. "Dr. Chilton," she starts hesitantly. "That's an unusual message."

"From an," Chilton grimaces. "An unusual man, I guess."

"How did that even work?" Miriam asks.

"Let me show you," Chilton tells them and fetches a copy of the Journal of Criminal Psychology from a stack of magazines. The double-page he opens already got a slim sticky note in it. He hands it over for Miriam to read. 

 _"While often  falsely classified as  symptoms of narcissistic  personality_  
_disorder, these hedonistic  tendencies  contrasting the  disinclination to_  
_intimacy are mere maladaptive patters,  desired to cause in fact an up-_  
_tick in  the depth and stability of  profound, trustful  bonds. Like a mat-_  
_tock they cut slits into the relationship for the seeds of loyalty to grow._  
_Frederick Chilton's  complete  disregard of  hedonism not  as a form of_  
_narcissistic exhibitionism focused on unpreservable pleasure but rather_  
_an expression  of  love within a quest  for  sharing an connecting is re-_  
_presentive of his limited understanding of personality disorders as such._

"At first glance this seems like a more direct message," Miriam says calmly, "rather than a hidden threat."

"It's not coincidental," Chilton argues. "Who adds an anecdote about smoked salmon to an article in the Journal of Criminal Psychology?"

"Sounds like Lecter to me," Will says. 

"Exactly," Chilton agrees. 

"This is Lecter, Frederick. Not the Ripper. He's messing with you. That's all. Maladaptive patterns." Will pinches the bridge of his nose. He's tired. Tired of looking at Chilton. Of hearing his voice. His thoughts. Emotions even. Affront and arrogance. And the flustered tension underneath. 

"What were the messages that followed," Miriam asks, keeping them on track. 

"In his Critique of Contemporary Psychiatric Care he called me an over-ripe pomegrenate," Chilton says and Will is thankful for Miriam's facade to first slip into a grin before Chilton can misconstrue his own laughter for malice. It's clearly a case of ridicule.

"Covertly?" Miriam asks. 

"Yes, of course covertly," Chilton insists. 

"But it was the same article in which he called your practices an insult to the field of psychotherapy. Or am I mistaken?" Will wonders with a casual tone. 

"That's not the same," Chilton tells them. 

"How so?" Miriam asks. She got her face back in order. 

"Everyone knows pomegranates crack when they're over-ripe. _Bearing the flesh_ ," he adds. 

"I'm sure everyone knows," Will comments, but Miriam interrupts him before he can take it any further. 

"Same arrangement? she asks. "Each word under the other?"

"Here," Chilton says and opens another journal. "Same arrangement."

"And the third message?" Miriam asks patiently. At least that's all Will gets from her. She's calm. The only calm body in the room. 

"It said: Time is up, Frederick," Chilton says. 

"In a different article?" Miriam asks. 

"Yes, as I have been saying. That time he included a recipe for oven roasted salmon with a pomegranate ginger sauce," Chilton says as he flings open the third double-page marked by another classic sticky note. "Right here." He shows Miriam the passage. 

"Positive Effects of Hypnosis on Patients with Dissociation Identity Disorder: Big Thunder, Little Rain," she reads the title of the last rebuttal. "I don't think this is news," she says under her breath. 

"Hypnosis is an underdeveloped instrument in psychiatry. People are scared to touch it," Chilton argues. 

"But you aren't, are you?" Will asks. 

"Of course not," Chilton says dismissively. "It might have benefited you greatly," he says and after a moment of consideration: "Both of you actually."

"Oh, we're in capable hands," Will assures him, tone thick with attitude. 

"That's more than I can say for myself then. I don't feel this investigation is in capable hands," Chilton says. 

"He's not threatening you. You're not important enough," Will tells him again. 

"And yet I am important enough for countless rebuttals. Those must have cost him some time. Attention to detail. Seems like he put some effort in it. Has he put any effort in you lately, Will?" Chilton ask, feeling a little too smug for Will's taste. 

"I don't think he's ever gotten out of his way to mock me like that. Or anyone for that matter," Will says, not taking the bait. "Doesn't mean you're important. You're merely the mouse under a cat's claws. To be played with for practice. Before your head's bitten off."

"Very poetic," Chilton says. "It's your job to keep my head attached to my neck. If this case is mishandled, I'm going to make sure everyone knows about how even the FBI is too afraid to act on Lecter."

"Another TattleCrime article?" Will asks.

"I have received some uplifting letters from fellow concerned citizens. I hope Lecter is aware of just how many people fantasize about killing him. After all it seems as if it could be his head that'll be bitten of."

Jealousy is an emotion that always exists on the threshold between reality and fantasy. The desire of wanting something that someone else occupies in that very moment. The anticipation of how it would feel to possess such thing. Or even another person. And yet at times it all glides into the realms of fictional yearning. The need to claim another man's fantasy. Keeping them from entertaining the same thought. Will knows they're out there, has met them even. Those who have wanted to kill Lecter. Have tried. He was there a couple of times. Yet when it comes to the fantasy, he feels the intense instinct to harvest it for himself. For sparser times.

"Oh, he's aware," Will just says.

"It would be helpful if you could hand us these letters too," Miriam says.

"Is this investigation meant to protect me or him?" Chilton asks. His initial absurdly genuine amusement of seeing Miriam is shifting towards annoyance.

"If Lecter is indeed looking for a helping hand to attack you, said person might try to contact you in a less suspicious way first," Miriam argues.

"I see," Chilton says. "I'll make sure to hand them over."

"Thank you, Sir," she tries to appease him. She's observant. Less intuitive maybe than Will, not any less efficient though.

  
* * * * *

"It's a dead end," Will insist again. Jack is in his almost familiar position again, leaning back, away from Will, fingers laced together, faking an entirely calm interior while actually seeking help from Miriam to his left with stress-filled gazes. Help to deal with him. With his constipating effect on the investigation.

"It's not a dead end," Miriam insists. "We've gained some information."

"About the Freddies conspiring?" Will asks annoyed.

"Are you going to throw a tantrum over Freddie Lounds again?" Jack asks, slight warning in his tone.

"You haven't seen me throw a tantrum yet, Jack," Will reminds him.

"I hope it's nothing like Lecter's outbursts of disappointments," Jack says.

"For my sake or yours?" Will asks, eyebrows raised daringly.

"Quit it with your ambiguous threats," Jack says. "It'll get you in trouble before you know it. What kind of information, Miriam?"

"It seems Dr. Chilton is in correspondence with various people over the alleged threats," she says. "I asked him for permission to look into it. He agreed. It wouldn't be the first time for a perpetrator to reach out to a future victim. Maybe there's a connection to Lecter within those letters."

"There won't be one," Will insists.

"And why is that?" Jack asks, giving him attention solely out of politeness by now.

"Because Lecter's not threatening him," Will says again. "Not with intent. Trust me." He knows it's too much to ask, but it might appeal to Jack's sentimental side. "Let me talk to him."

"No," Jack just says. "I'd like for Miriam to go through the letters first."

"It could take weeks, Jack," Will argues. "Try to find each sender and check their background. That's time wasted. Messages through words alignments... Do you really think Lecter's gotten that stupid over a year in confinement?" Will asks. "If anything you know he probably got smarter."

"What else did you see in the articles, Will. Enlighten us," Jack demands. "What do you think are his messages?"

"It's more complicated than those blatant threats. He's raising waves so we get out of the water," Will says. "There are more subtle inconsistencies. Punctuation, citations that seem rather unfitting, references to seemingly related topics that yet feel too weak for something out of Hannibal's hand. Did you read those articles, Jack? Didn't they feel a little too 101 for you? For Lecter?"

"Maybe," Jack admits. "Yet he was never particularly bad at explaining his thoughts. That is, if he wanted them to be understood."

"These articles, their mean isn't their content. There's something else underneath them. Or maybe he just wants to cause a storm over nothing. But in order for me to tell the difference, I need to see him, Jack. I need to see him as soon as possible."

"What do you think?" Jack asks Miriam.

"If we go see him now," she says, "he might throw us off. Better to clear any loose threads first. It's the rational choice, Jack." Will feels the stab deep in his gut.

"I agree. Let's not get hasty, Will. Hannibal's not going anywhere," Jack says.

"Do you really think conventional investigation is good enough for Hannibal Lecter, Jack?" Will asks.

"You're very gifted, Will," Jack starts. "You have insight, you're smart --brilliant even-- and you know Hannibal better than anyone else. And I respect you for that. But don't you dare call Miriam a conventional investigator in my office. Ever. Again"

Miriam herself draws a sharp breath but doesn't interrupt. Will can sense her discomfort though. He shares it.

"She's been through hell with us," Jack says, leaning forward in his chair, broadening his chest. "Even longer than you and me. I know you like to entertain the thought that only you have felt Hannibal's grip to your bones. That only you know the pain that comes from it. But that's only because you stopped looking, Will. Because you stopped looking at us. Stopped feeling our pain. And I won't deny that I get it. That I have to take responsibility for it even. But I won't have your arrogance here anymore. Your monopoly on suffering. And on Lecter. I may have broken you. I may have taken so much from you that I deserved it when you pushed back. I wanted you on him so it was my fault he held onto you. And you protecting him in return. But that is between you and me. And you take it out on me, Will," he insist. "You take it out on me not her-"

"Jack," Miriam tries tentatively.

"She deserves better than your -"

"Jack," she interrupts him again. "Sir," she says with more force and this time Jack yields and faces away from Will. Turns to her instead.

"I appreciate your collegiality, Miriam," Jack tells her. "But this isn't about you. Not really. I'd like for you to leave us alone for a moment.

Miriam hesitates for just a split second before she nods decisively and leaves Jack's office.

"Do you hear me, Will?" Jack asks then. "She's off limits."

"Let me talk to him, Jack," Will says again, ignoring Jacks words completely.

"Do you want to see him to save lives? Or to know who's rivaling you for Lecter's attention?" Jack asks.

"I want to solve this. And return home," Will admits.

"Take the time that's given to you to look at those you left behind. Look after them, Will. I won't give you permission to see him just now," Jack says. "And that's my last word."

 

* * * * *

 

"Well well well," Margot says with a smirk as Will walks up the long road to their stables. "Fancy seeing you here." Her hair is perfectly rolled into voluptuous curls that only seem to get bigger once she pulls her cap off.

"Margot," Will says and nods. He's slept with her yet he still feels intimidated in her presence.

"This is," she tilts her head as she looks at him. "Unexpected."

"It's been a while, I guess," Will says. "Since we've seen each other."

"Are you here for Alana?" she asks.

"Jack sent me," Will says but then reconsiders. "Indirectly."

Margot raises her eyebrows, waiting for him to keep talking.

"Said I could be spending more quality time with the ghosts of my pasts," Will tells her.

"Ghosts, huh?" There's a smile on her cheek, but Will knows he won't be off that easily.

"Aren't we all ghosts in each other's lives?" he asks. "A conglomerate of ideas and memories. Wishes. Overlapping expectations. Of each other and of ourselves."

"How does this feel, Will?" she asks, placing her palm against his jaw. "Warm? Alive? Present?"

"Wrong," he says and gently takes her hand off him. "It feels wrong," he says again. She doesn't look hurt. She wasn't coming onto him. It wasn't even a gesture of friendship, he knows. It was a gesture of pity. "A reminder that you'd only touch me for convenience. Or self-preservation."

"And you, Will?" she asks. "Why did you touch me? Because I was beautiful? Or because I had tried to kill someone?"

"Because I was lonely. Just as you were."

"We were lonely in different ways, Will," she says, keeping her eyes on him. "I was lonely by isolation. You were lonely by choice."

"Hannibal isolated me," Will argues, but his tone lacks fire.

"And did you like it? Not answering to Jack anymore. No more guilt because Alana cared about you. Wasn't it almost godsend how he connected our lives."

"For you," Will says.

"For you," she corrects him. "Wasn't Mason much more interesting than what Crawford put you through, day after day after day? Wasn't I?" she reaches out for him again, but only brushes his shoulder this time. "No. You were too busy containing the killer he tried to turn you into. Did you even put one thought into wondering what his plans were with me? That it had nothing to do with you?"

"You're not a killer, Margot. You were a victim," he says. And for a second it's not Margot in front of him, but Abigail. And his voice is not his own. But Hannibal's again.

"Am I still?" she asks, crooking her head to the side. "Are you?"

"Aren't we all?" Will asks right back.

"Self-defense and murder," she muses. "Almost a slippery slope. You know that as well as I do. Sometimes self-defense _is_ waiting for the opportunity of murder. Are you still waiting?"

"Sometimes murder is waiting for the opportunity of self-defense," Will says.

"He's promised Alana to come for her. For all of us. And yet I don't fear him. I've been through worse than what Lecter will do to me. Isn't that weird? It's almost freeing."

"If it wasn't for Alana?" he asks.

"If it wasn't for Alana," she says.

"You alone would have nothing to fear, Margot. You were his favorite student," Will tells her.

"Not his most creative one, though. That was you," Margot says. "Do you have something to fear?"

"I don't fear the beast. Only the friend it calls for," Will tells her. "I don't fear what he'll do to me. Only what I would allow him to do."

"This is where the beasts roam, though. Always have. Alana won't be too happy to see you back here," she says somewhat absently.

"And you?" Will asks, although he knows she cares more about Alana than him anyway.

"In a way, he gave me everything I've ever asked for. Mason's gone. There's an heir. Alana. He never asked for anything in return. Not of me."

"His calculations don't work like that," Will tells her. "He's going to collect though. Not in form of favor. But in form of murder. It's the only currency he accepts. He'll ask of you to kill someone. To satisfy his curiosity."

"I've paid, Will," she says.

"When your heir held my DNA?" Will asks.

"Why do you think he allowed that to happen in the first place? Curiosity?"

"He didn't know it was going to be me. He just wanted me to know of Mason."

"Oh he knew. You know he knew."

"He wanted me to feel for you so he and I could bond over Mason's murder. He couldn't have predicted a child."

"Yet when you wanted him to kill Mason, he didn't."

"Because _I_ wouldn't kill him."

"Hannibal didn't kill Mason so I wasn't left with nothing. You didn't kill Mason because Jack was involved. But you wanted to. In the end, and either way, you were looking out for only yourself. No matter your actions. I assume that hasn't changed."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Will asks. "Alana sent Jack. Here I am. To make sure she's safe."

"I'll tell you why he wanted us to have a child," she says, stepping a little closer. "And I'll leave you to decide whether you believe it or not." She leans in, careful not to touch him though. Not again. "Because," she starts, voice laced with thick layers of secrecy and significance. "He wanted you to start looking out for me." She gives him another look, tense with expectation yet certain to remain unresolved. A glance, a rhetorical question.

"You look after yourself, Margot."

"Do you know why you failed to kill him? Because you love him," she says, looking at Will, but through him. Into her own memories. "But in hatred you must be present." Margot pulls herself back and looks at him. "I trust you, Will. And I don't trust many people. He knew I could trust you. In a way, he gave us his blessing."

"He took it away," Will reminds her.

"Mason did."

"You give Mason too much credit. Hannibal regretted his blessings."

"Hannibal was at the hospital. Not to gloat," she argues. "What Mason did scarred all of us."

"He wanted to give me a reason to kill Mason. I refused," Will says again, as if he had to convince himself.

"Mason was mine to kill. Always. Since the day I walked into Dr. Lecter's office. And I did."

"Hannibal did," Will corrects her. Although he doesn't know why he feels that he has to.

"Did he?" she asks. "Stick to what you know, Will," she says. "Not what you believe."

"I know that every connection you and I had, was erased."

"Just because it died, Will, doesn't mean it was never here." She looks almost sad, but she did her grieving. What is left now is a slight sting of what could have been. In another life. Will feels nothing. Just the residue of relief. "Don't disappoint me, Will. Alana saved you. Saved him for you. Promise me, you'll look out for us. All of us. For her. Don't look out for him. Don't allow the beast to take us," she pauses, almost nervously. "No matter what'll happen."

"I'm here, Margot. I'm _present_." He takes her hand, knowing it'll give her more assurance than any of his words could. He squeezes it gently. "I know it was here. I haven't forgotten," he says out loud for once. "It couldn't be sustained. Not with me. It was inevitable. Hannibal's death  _is_  inevitable. I stopped looking out for myself. Believe me."

Margot takes her time to consider him. "If only we didn't exist in Hannibal's world," she says. "Puppets on a string. Dancing to the song he plays. I want Alana to be free."

"That makes two of us," Will assures her. "Can I see her?"

"You know the way," Margot says, leaving him standing alone. 

 

* * * * *

 

"Seeing you here," Alana starts. "A memory of another life." She sets down a cup of hot coffee in front of him.

"This is the life you chose," Will says. "Alana Bloom. Of the Verger strain. Queens of the slaughterhouse."

"We both know who's king. He made us into who we are," she says and sits down next to Will. An unfamiliar proximity as she tries to find a comfortable position for her maltreated hips.

" _When the stars threw down their spears; And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?_ "

"Since when do you read Blake?" Alana asks.

"I've had time," Will just says.

"So this is a friendly visit?" she asks.

"Friendly, yeah."

"How do you feel? Being back in the field?" Alana asks.

"Is this friendly concern? Or professional?" Will wonders.

"I'm worried about you, Will."

"It was your idea to get me back," he reminds her.

"There's safety in numbers, Will. I'm mustering the sheeps," she says.

"Then why am I out there," Will asks. "In the field."

"I'd rather have you here investigating then out alone in Virginia."

"Like a lone wolf?"

"Are you lonely, Will?" she asks. "Loneliness makes us vulnerable."

"I ran into Margot outside," he tells her. "You're not alone."

"Is that your concept of company, Will? Friendship can only be offered by those who are as alone as you are?"

"There are limits to the number of intense relationships human beings can provide. Too many and we break," Will says.

"And sometimes just one is enough to break us," she says. "Let me be your friend, Will."

"You and Jack have become friends," Will says. "I butchered my friendship with Jack in Hannibal's kitchen. And I wasn't even there," he huffs at the realization that an act as simple as a phone call can end genuine emotions. "How would that even work?"

"Friendships can be rebuilt," Alana says. "Isn't that what you and Hannibal did. After each incision?"

"He's not here though."

"But you asked to see him," Alana says.

"How often do you see him?" Will asks.

"Every day," she tells him as if it doesn't bear any meaning.

"What's that like?" he asks.

"You never get used to it," Alana admits. "I still get chills whenever I first see him. When he looks back at me. When he speaks."

"Does he-," Will starts, but he shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. "Does he talk about me?"

"Will," Alana says softly. He always liked her saying his name.

"I know," he says. Because he knows he shouldn't have.

"I don't like him talking about you," Alana tells him. "Just as I don't like you talking about him. Not like that."

"What does he say?" Will asks.

"He said you were ungrateful-"

"You're lying," Will stops her words.

"He said you were lost and that you needed space," Alana goes on despite his accusation. "And that he was going to give it to you."

"He's more considerate than Jack then," Will says. "Or you."

"Do you hear yourself, Will? Do you hear him talking?" Alana asks, tensing up. "What happened in Wolf Trap? What happened in your house? Before Jack arrested him? Because this sounds like a goddamn break-up."

"What happened after we left Muskrat Farm?" Will asks then.

"That's what I asked," she says confused.

"No," Will insists. "What happened here?"

"We called the police," Alana says.

"After Margot killed Mason?" Will asks.

"Hannibal killed Mason."

"Did he?"

"What difference would it make?" Alana asks. "He's dead. He had it coming."

"And Hannibal got his way," Will says.

"He had his way when you killed Rendall Tier," Alana tells him.

"It was self-defense," Will argues.

"So was Mason's death," Alana says.

"We have to take responsibility, Alana. Don't you care at all that she killed her own brother? That's not like you, Alana."

He rubs his eyes as Alana stays silent. Verbally. And emotionally. Then Will looks back up at her.

"You helped her," Will realizes. "You did it together." He shakes his head at how long it took to finally see with clarity what went down. "Hannibal must be proud."

"It was you who told me to evolve. To spill blood," she reminds him.

"You let me believe you didn't," he says.

"It's none of your business."

"Is that how far we've come? How far apart?"

"I love her. She could have done it alone and it wouldn't have change that. Isn't that familiar to you?" she asks.

"No, this kind of certainty certainly isn't." Will says. "I don't feel as unconditionally as you, Alana. Although there was a time when you didn't either."

"It's interesting how you hold everyone by the standards of their past selves. Everyone but you," she tells him. "As if you haven't changed."

"I recognize the difference between my past and my present," Will says, briefly remembering Botticelli.

"Then you shouldn't be surprised."

"I wish we hadn't been forced to change. To evolve," Will admits.

"I don't," Alana says. "I'm ready to face the devil again, if it means to protect my family."

"No you're not," Will insists, not believing her at all. "That's why you brought me in. To face him for you. And yet, Jack won't let me."

"He has his reasons. Valid reasons," Alana argues.

"I need to see him, Alana, " Will says.

"I can't decide that," she tells him.

"You see him every day."

"Because I couldn't bear not to."

"Neither can I," Will bursts.

"I need to convince myself that after each night, after I leave him in that cell, after I come here to see my wife, my son, that after each night he's still there. That he did not follow me home to take from me what I love most." She fights back tears. Not of fear but anger. "What do you need to convince yourself of?" Alana asks. "That he hasn't forgotten you? That's not a good enough reason for me either."

 

* * * * *

 

"Well it was nice that you came visit," Margot tells him at the door, slinging an arm around Alana's waist. "Bring whiskey next time," she tells him with a wink. She might be one that underwent the smallest change. Good for her, Will thinks. 

"My offer still stands," Alana tells him. "I want us to be friends again," she says and Margot smiles at that. It feels more genuine than Alana's words.

"I have an investigation to turn to," Will just says. "Waste some time with letters sent to Frederick Chilton. What could be more fun?"

"I appreciate you coming here," Alana says. "I really do." 

"Will you talk to Jack?" Will asks then, giving it a last shot. She puts her arm around Margot's shoulder and kisses her temple. Will has to look away. 

"I'll talk to him," she says, getting his attention back. "I won't promise you anything. I haven't changed my mind yet, Will."

"Thank you," he tells her, not feeling any lighter though.

 

* * * * *

 

It takes them sixteen days to go through every letter and get background checks from every sender. 

Nothing. 

Just like Will had predicted. Most of them are usual TattleCrime readers, Freddie Lounds' fans, hardly anyone with ties to psychology, ties to Lecter or even his broader social circle. 

"I know what you're going to say, Will," Jack says. "But I don't think these were weeks wasted. On the contrary, actually. Even if it hasn't gotten us further. It got Chilton and Prurnell off my back. And that's worth every minute we spent on those letters. I couldn't have afforded another one of Freddie Lounds' articles. And believe me, you wouldn't have wanted to answer to Prurnell directly. Although she would have gotten you off the case immediately anyway."

"So what's the plan?" Will asks, because he's not going to beg Jack again to be allowed a visit into Baltimore's State Hospital of the Criminally Insane. 

"Are we going to see Lecter," Miriam asks and Will frowns. He had never thought about having to take her with him. 

"No," Jack says, and Will throws himself back into the chair. "Will," Jack says then, "you and I know Hannibal has at least one accomplice that would be skilled enough for any job Lecter would assign?"

"There's no man on the outside," Will insists. 

"A woman. I've met her in Florence. She's the one who shot you. And she saved me. And I sent her to Maryland. To Muskrat Farm. She followed you there. Might have helped Hannibal escape. Might have helped him save you. From Mason Verger."

Will stumbles over that, hesitates to answer. "Did-," he starts carefully. "Did anyone see her? Alana maybe?"

"She didn't. And everyone else died by Lecter's hand. Unless he had someone who got his back. I want you to help me find her, Will. I want you to help me bring her here."

 

* * * * *

  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !There's a mention of rape in this chapter! 
> 
> But Hannibal and Will finally come face to face :D I hope you enjoy it!

"How do you expect me do that, Jack?" Will asks. "Unlike you, I have never seen that woman," he lies. There's no need to involve Jack in the circumstances that led him to meet Chiyoh. Or that got her to go to Florence with him even.

"Loyalty is rarely immediate," Jack says, eyeing him annoyingly. The unspoken accusations swirling through the room like fruit flies. "She grew into it."

"She ties into Lecter's past?" Miriam asks, standing with her back against the wall. Will had never seen anyone dare to do that in Jack's office. Anyone besides himself.

"We've always thought of Lecter as being sociable but isolated when it comes to close relationships," Jack says. "Maybe that has been a hastily assumption." He gives Will another look. Piercing, but Will lets it slip through him.

"He was never alone," Miriam says to herself mostly.

"He was," Will corrects her nonetheless. "Alone." He could feel it. During all those conversations. The days spend together. He didn't feel Hannibal's loneliness as such, but he felt the similarity in the tides of their lives. The quiet understanding of shared experiences.

"We need to look more closely into Lecter's history in order to understand the man he turned into," Jack tells them but Will can only hear the echo of his own words.

"If it's not her, there could be someone else," Miriam suggest.

"He didn't build himself an army," Will says.

"He's always looking to extend his influence," Jack interjects. "He sees in people potential for his influence. Abigail Hobbes, Rendall Tier, Dr. Du Maurier, you," he lists and raises his eyebrows at Will. "He used Alana for his schemes. We're fooling ourselves if we don't consider there have been more before us." Before you, is what Will hears, although he knows Jack referred to all of them to prevent this exact reaction: jealousy. And the rejection of every thought that causes it.

"Where do we start?" Miriam asks. "His residency? Medical school?"

"Florence," Jack says. "Start in Italy. The first time he lived there. Go back until you find something. Go as far back as you have to. Don't look for his crimes. Look for the quiet ones, the delicate relationships, almost invisible between the passion and violence."

"I'm not that kind of agent, Jack" Will reminds him. "I look at what you show me. What you lead me to. I don't dig up past lives. I don't do paperwork. I associate."

"You did paperwork when we were looking for the Shrike," Jack says. "You were more open towards actual investigating before Lecter termed your empathy the only valuable aspect of your work."

"You weren't unhappy about it," Will says. "My associations were the only thing you were interested in."

"Your associations were already pushing you towards your limit of what's bearable. I wouldn't have dared to asked more of you," Jack defends himself.

"They took me beyond what was bearable," Will says.

"Then it shouldn't bother you that this time I only ask for you to investigate as any agent would," Jack argues.

"Or you could let me see Hannibal, listen to my associations and be done with it," Will says.

"And risk your sanity once more?" Jack asks.

"Madness boosts our psychological immune system," Will tells him, inner voice a duet of his own thoughts and Hannibal's whispers. "I've seen madness, Jack. Seen it in here," he points at his own temple. "I'm not as vulnerable as I have been."

"And I believe that," Jack says. "Maybe the stalling is for my own benefit more than yours. I'm not ready yet to let either of you go down to him under my orders," he admits.

"You brought me here to talk to him," Will reminds him. "That's what you asked of me. And I'm asking to do just that. If you're not letting me talk to him, then what am I doing here Jack?"

"You talking to him is a two way street. He'll be talking to you, too. And I'm just not comfortable with that. Not yet," Jack clarifies. "I don't want to give him the satisfaction of talking to either of you." He doesn't look at Miriam, but Will can't help but glance at her. She gives nothing away. "You're right. I wanted you to talk to him. You didn't want to come here at all. And now you won't rest until you see him," Jack goes on. "It's already happening, Will. You may have not stood in front of him, but his presence is undeniable. Here. And with us. Don't you think I know it's inevitable for you to talk to him? I do know. But when you will, I want you to be ahead of him. Try to see my side on this."

Jack's side of things is frustration mostly. With bright but rare spots of agitation. A light fog of urgency surrounding it all. But beneath, the steady beat of determination. If there is concern it's floating behind the white noise of Jack's tense and self-focused emotional world.

"We will never be ahead of him," Will just says. "Simply because he doesn't make plans, Jack. He takes opportunities. And in that he's always more decisive than we could ever be. He takes opportunities if they interest him. He has no regard for loss. For human vanities. He takes consequences as they come. Never too worried about where they take him. He considers regrets a necessary part of life. Not only regrets. Grief, too. And sacrifices."

"Then we have to make sure he is not presented with an opportunity," Jack says. 

"Be aware of possible opportunities," Miriam says with in a heavy tone, but otherwise she appears lighter than usual. "Be aware of weak spots."

"We all have weak spots," Will interjects. 

"We all _are_ weak spots," she interrupts. 

"And opportunities," Will adds. 

"As long as we're aware,-" Miriam says. 

"Can we be fully aware?" Will interrupts. 

"I'm sure you are," she tells him, not batting an eye, posture as solid as ever. 

"And you?" Will asks, although he knows he's dangerously close to territory Jack told him to stay clear of. "Do you know your weak spots? The bruises he'll poke again?" 

"Bruises?" she repeats. "I was more than bruised. Did he possess you, Will? Like me? Did he strip you bare? Down to the thinnest, most vulnerable threads of your soul? Did he re-arrange them, restrung you, changed how you were wired? Did he took from your body? As if it wasn't yours to give? Just his to sacrifice? Have you been dismantled? Have pieces of you been passed to another man?" Her questions pierce right through him. When it comes to Hannibal, Will has always insisted for experiences to not be compared. "Have you ever read Rousseau, Will?" she goes on relentlessly. " _Le Lévite d'Ephraim_? A woman is raped and murdered," she recalls the story. "Her husband, desiring to rage war against those who took his wife from him, cuts her body into pieces and sends them to the other tribes, uniting them in arms and revulsion. The violated body of a women reduced to nothing more than a mere mean for male communication. That happened to me." Her voice is steady, unnervingly steady as she retells her story. Will would have loved to blame his discomfort on her. But it is entirely due to her words. And originating in himself. Describing a man he has met, yet never met. Never wants to meet. The deeper sadness that rains on the room isn't Will's however. It's Jack, looking small -- probably the first time Will has ever seen him that small --, listening silently but overwhelmingly _present_. And then there's guilt. Jack's remorse crawling over the floor. A dark heavy mist, circling them up to their knees, as it was Jack whom Hannibal was communicating with. "I'm not a bruise, Will." She pauses, preparing to move on from her exposed self. Picking the covers back up from the ground. "You have scars," she notes, glancing down to his navel once again. "You know how we heal. Padded and hardened. Patching and sealing the damage."

"Contrary to common belief, scar tissue isn't more resilient," Will says. "It's less functional than the skin we had prior to healing." He doesn't know why he's being rude again. Doesn't know what he's afraid of.

"Its function isn't to imitate unharmed skin," Miriam says then, gathering up some physical tension as if preparing for a fight. It's so clearly for Will to read that he feels as if she was deliberating letting him feel. A non-verbal threat towards the empath. She's usually so guarded, so composed, it throws Will off.

Mission accomplished. 

"You're no less of a weak spot though, Miriam. No less of an opportunity," Will says. "You feel strong here, but that doesn't mean anything to him."

"I don't feel strong anywhere," Miriam tells him, gaze falling but Will can tell it's to prevent her from looking at Jack. A slight fear to disappoint him the only emotion slipping from her eyes. 

Although Will feels the fear dipping into his stomach, he knows it's not his own. Knows he's allowed to look at Jack as he turns to him. "There's your advantage," Will says, flat and cold because he's guilty now too. " _You_ are self-aware," Will says to Miriam then. "And as long as we're aware," he picks up her words, "we are one step ahead. See the opportunity before him. Even if we can't take it from him." He takes a breath, aiming for a deep one but his chest is closed. "She should be the one talking to him, Jack." 

 

* * * * *

 

He can hear Jack calling after him, but Will shuts it out. He's in desperate need of a break. He hurries through the halls of the FBI's headquarters in search for an empty space to rest his head. Subconsciously it eventually leads him to Alana's office and although he finds himself alone in it, he wonders if he was looking for comfort instead of solitary. And if he deserved to have it denied. 

 

* * * * *

 

"You don't usually run from me," Jack says, softer than he'd normally talk. Than he'd ever talked. It's not compassion. Not concern. He's grappling with surprise over Will's reaction. "You shut me out, leave me standing. But you hardly ever run from me."

"I needed time to clear my head," Will admits. "My head space."

"Clear it of other people's emotions?" Jack asks. "Yours or mine?" At least he's blunt in his confusion. "Hers?"

"Does it make a difference? We felt them. There's no point in allocating blame," Will says. "When you send her in," he goes on, trying hard to maintain eye contact, feeling it would be appropriate for the gravity of what he's about to say. "When you send her to see him, you're no better than him. You'll use her in the same manner."

"As I would have used you," Jack says honestly. 

"In a way Hannibal didn't," Will argues. "You'll be putting her through it once more."

"And yet you think it's our best shot?" Jack asks, not giving away if he really considers it an option. 

"How would you feel, Jack? Losing an arm -- an ear -- so Hannibal can send a message," Will wonders. "What did you do to the letters Hannibal wrote you? The condolences, the holiday cards?"

"I burned them," Jack admits. 

"Same as me," Will says. "And what happened to her arm after it was released from evidence? To Abigail's ear."

"Cremated," Jack says, but the word catches in his throat.

"Disposable goods," Will notes. "Useful, but without lasting value."

"I claimed he respected her," Jack says, shaking his head.

" _I_ claimed he respected her," Will interjects. 

"The absence of humiliation does not equal the presence of respect," Jack says. "With Hannibal there are only degrees of disregard. I have to remember that. For Lecter, the only person with worth is he himself."

And despite everything, Will doesn't dare to disagree. "There was no disrespect in her crime scene, Jack," Will tries. "I couldn't feel the disregard of the Ripper. The humiliation. Because it wasn't there."

"She was _alive_ , Will," Jack says, there's anger but so forcefully directed inwards that Will only feels its sickening paralysis. "Instead of taking you to see it, I could have just asked her if she felt any indignity. Which evidently she has. It doesn't matter to me if Hannibal _thinks_ he treated her well compared to others. His standards have no base for me anymore."

"It's what we do though, Jack," Will reminds him. "Assuming the point of view of those incomprehensible to those around us. Behavioral analysis."

"That doesn't mean we can disregard our own perspectives. Or the victims'," Jack says. "Maybe we've been doing this for too long. Hannibal is still inside our heads. We apply what he taught us, his language, his belief system."

"We need to understand them to catch them."

"We need to draw clearer lines. In our perspectives. Our vocabularies," Jack demands, determination grounding him beneath his wrath. "Do you still think she should talk to him?"

"Hannibal, he might see an opportunity for manipulation," Will says, trying to draw clear lines. "See it in her. But a patient cannot be aware of the influence," he says and then adds, "at least for Hannibal's objectives. If a patient has been exposed to manipulation, it becomes less effective. The method cannot be too obvious. It's the _prime directive_  of Hannibal's therapy. But Miriam, she perceives herself as permeable anyway. To his influence. His manipulations."

"How do you perceive her?" Jack asks.

"Her mind's a spider web to his tampering," Will says. "There's room for exchange but if he'll thicken his words with deception, he'll get caught up in it."

"You have been manipulated before?" Jack asks. 

"My self-awareness is limited when it comes to Hannibal," Will says.

"You don't know what kind of opportunity you pose to him." Jack assumes.

"I have been prone to disregard what knowledge I possess," he admits. "I have assumed free will and continued to act as though I had it. When in fact I didn't have it. Or want it," Will adds a little quieter. 

"I cannot command her to play living message board again," Jack decides then. "Even if she would comply without hesitation. Maybe there's one more thing we could try. To gain an advantage. One more person to talk to."

"Finding a nameless assassin is a risky gamble," Will says, not willing to blow Chiyoh's cover. His own. 

"Not who I meant. Talk to Dr. Du Murier," Jack says, feeling proud over his flash of inspiration. "She spend some time with Lecter too. Been under his _manipulation_." His disbelief shines through in his intonation. "It's time she discloses some of her knowledge. Either that or-," he stops mid-sentence to smile at Will. "I have no reservations using her for our purposes. Miriam won't lose another limb just so Hannibal can get his messages across. Neither literally nor metaphorically."

"And Dr. Du Maurier can spare a limb?" Will asks.  

"Give the devil his due," Jack recites, leaving Will in doubt for a short moment. "When it comes to Lecter, her defenses are the only ones that have been proven to be effective," he clarifies then. 

 

* * * * *

 

"Another dead end?" Miriam asks when they're back in the car. 

"It's always a dead end with Bedelia. Not because she doesn't know things, but because she closes the road whenever she hears you knocking," Will tells her. "You met her?"

"I have," she says. "She's been around during the trial. Jack doesn't buy her story."

"Do you?" Will asks, wondering if he can coax some inner thoughts out of her. 

"Jack says she is borrowing my story. And sticking to it," Miriam tells him. Will doesn't know if she's deliberately dodging his question. He waits her out. Their silence isn't any less comfortable than their conversations. In the corner of his eyes he imagines seeing her fidgeting, but whenever he lets his eyes roam he finds her hands completely still. "Did Jack reach that conclusion on his own?" she asks then, blindsiding Will completely with her boldness. With her clear-cut, straightforward way of talking. It's void of judgement, open questions, seeking information but never misleading. It's the way she's been talking since he first met her, but he only now consciously recognizes how her words are never tainted by emotions. And if all words have agenda, he thinks, seeing Hannibal leaning over him, hers are never hidden. Not meant to deceive but to shed light. He envies her of that ambition. 

"If anything, Jack's professional opinion of her is much lower than my own," Will says. 

"And your personal?" she asks. 

"I don't have a personal opinion of Bedelia. I have personal feelings," he corrects her.

"Feelings of?" 

"She's putting me in a dilemma," Will says. " Her insight is so crucial, fully-formed, concrete that it evokes in me the desire to act upon it. Utilize it. Move it. But she just keeps sitting on it like a dragon on a pile of treasure. If she would have talked, we would have had him before any of this happened. I feel a zest of action where there should be none. Bedelia only collects. She never dispenses. I feel," he takes a moment to find the right words, "irritation and resentment over what she accumulates. Dead capital."

"Seems like the dilemma is caused by the purpose you read into that _capital_. Not how she chooses to handle it," Miriam says. "You feel if you had been trusted with said care, you'd get close to fulfill that purpose. For a higher cause. You see yourself as more worthy of handling her insight. Some would call that dilemma jealousy."

"I'm not jealous of her insight," Will says. "I don't crave to have it-"

"Yet you want her to share it. With you. Me. Jack," Miriam interjects. 

"I don't want her to be its keeper," Will admits. "I'd rather there is nothing left to keep."

"There'll always be insight, knowledge, understanding of people that others deem worth hoarding for themselves," Miriam says.

"It's procacious," Will says.

"It's what we call intimacy. Romantic relationships. Love," Miriam corrects him. 

"Jack's trying to hoard your insight," he says. A pathetic attempt to swerve.

"Does that make you contemptuous of him?" she asks. Upfront, transparent, open. Will hates it.

"I understand his reservations."

"And you don't understand Bedelia's reservations?"

"I have no respect for them. They are mere provocation to anyone who knows what she could have prevented," Will says.

"You assume aggression on her part. Do you feel threatened?" Miriam asks. 

"Don't you?" he asks back. 

"No two people who have been as close to Hannibal Lecter as we've been share the same story. He doesn't recycle _treatment_ _approaches_ ," Miriam says. "They have to be as unique a each patient." Her profile of Hannibal is as sharp as everything else in her mind. "Still, I wouldn't bother raising a sole claim on my story."

"She's selling it well," Will says. "Better even. A high-luster version of your tragedy. She got Italy. Ball room dances. The allusion of a love affair."

"She's not the only one selling it well," Miriam says. "Lecter has been in perfect agreement with her."

"And that doesn't make you feel threatened?" he asks. 

"Insecurities cause the feeling of being threatened," she says. "Insecurities cause jealousy."

"I'll only be jealous of whoever or whatever will bring Hannibal's life to an end."

"You raise sole claim," she says.

"Of his death," Will admits.

"Dying is a solitary endeavor. It's too intimate," she tells him. "You could never fully claim it as yours."

"Frustrating isn't it?" Will asks, but it's meant to be rhetorical.

"Some would say, it's procacious." There's the hint of a triumphant smile on her face, but she doesn't turn to face Will, looks straight ahead as she so often does. It's not aimed at him. Just for herself. 

 

* * * * *

 

"I can't remember making an appointment with the FBI," Bedelia says, but she doesn't seem surprised to see their batches.

"We'd like to talk to you about Hannibal Lecter, Dr. Du Maurier," Miriam says, professional exterior making her appear taller than usual.  

"I assume there have been recent developments?" Bedelia says, taking one single controlled step to the side. "Elsewise I have nothing to add to the statements I have made in the past."

"Accusations of death threats have been made against Dr. Lecter," Miriam explains. 

"In my long history with Dr. Lecter, I have never been aware of him making explicit threats towards anyone. Much less have heard him expressing any himself," Bedelia says, expecting them to bow out. 

"What about implicit threats?" Miriam wonders. 

"How people fill the gaps left between Hannibal's words is beyond my personal assessment," Bedelia tells her and sits down with an icy grace behind a large desk. An empty wine glass sits to her right. 

"The accusations come from a former colleague of Dr. Lecter's. If verified, he might intend to threaten you, too," Miriam says. 

"I assume the _former_ colleague you're referring to is Frederick Chilton?" Bedelia asks. "I have a subscription to the JCP," she clarifies with an amused smile. 

"You seem very relaxed, Bedelia," Will notes. It should make him relax in return but it only leaves him suspicious. 

"My recovery is going well. Thank you," she says then, not bothered by the implication. 

"Is giving lectures on your _traumatic_ _experience_ part of your recovery?" Will asks. "Or just regular exploitation."

"A crucial part of recovery is reclaiming those realms taken from you. It has taken Ms. Lass back to the FBI. It has taken you back to the FBI, back to him," Bedelia remarks. "I don't think you are in a position to judge, Mr. Graham." She gives him a small moment to take it in. "You have always perceived yourself as the moral preserver. Walking alongside the devil himself. Holding judgement upon those who've fallen victim to him." 

"Not the victims," Will insists. "Just you."

"Your denial of my experience is not surprising to me," she says. "Painting me as an accomplice alleviates his sole guilt. Relieves you partly of the guilt you can't help but take on on his behalf. But have you ever asked yourself if he'd agree?"

"He doesn't care what you're guilty of. Your sentence has already been passed," Will tells her.

"Your relationship with him goes beyond conventions of friendship or love. Yet, it's not Hannibal who can't grasp the concept of a genuine favor."

"Are you saying he granted you a favor?" Will asks, trying to corner her. 

"Hannibal doesn't grant favors. He offers them," Bedelia corrects him.

"And you took it?" Miriam asks, joining Will in his quest. 

"I've fallen victim to Hannibal Lecter as much as you," Bedelia says, her gaze lingering on Will for a split second longer than necessary. "I have been under his control. What he offered and delivered was not to lie about his influence. What I'm guilty of is for me to bear. Not for you to ponder about."

"I don't ponder," Will says. "I keep in mind."

"For your own reckoning? Or in behalf of his?" she asks. "Or do you share tabs by now? He'd be delighted to hear that."

"Has he tried to contact you since he's been taken into custody," Miriam asks then. 

"Yes," Bedelia says all calm and composed like the scene of a frozen lake, dead water under thick ice and thin layers of soft, innocent snow.

"Yes?" Miriam asks, eyebrows raised as her surprise shines through her steady exterior.

"He has warned me," Bedelia says with as much weight she can put into each word, "that you," she says with another pointed look at Will, "would come to give the _final touch_  to what we had during our time in Florence."

"You're lying," Will says, instinctively objecting. Disagreeing out of principle for the second time since he came to Maryland.

"I have no reason to withhold the truth," Bedelia says. "Do you?"

"Why haven't you told the FBI," Miriam asks. 

"The FBI forwarded me the letter," Bedelia tells them. "I thought you were aware." She leans back, relaxing even more, although Will didn't think it possible. 

"We weren't," Miriam admits. "My apologies."

Bedelia just smiles graciously. 

 

* * * * *

 

"What are you doing, Jack?" Will asks, barging through the door, not bothering to greet him first. "Don't you think I should know about any claims Hannibal voices against me when you send me to talk to the other person they're concerning?"

"What are you talking about?" Jack asks, face tensing in confusion. 

"You want me to believe there are letters written by Hannibal Lecter that don't cross your desk before they're forwarded to the recipient?" Will asks annoyed. 

"Not if I can prevent it," Jack says. "If something slips by me, it's not under my authority. There has been a period -- if you recall -- in which my standing here had been in severe jeopardy."

"That's just how he likes it, Jack," Will tells him. "You. Me . Alana. Chilton. Miriam. Links on a chain. Dominoes. If one malfunctions, the others are doomed. Alana at the hospital, you at the agency, me isolated in Wolf Trap, _stuck_ in Wolf Trap. We all have to play our part to make sure Hannibal won't find a way out."

"What did he say, Will?" Jack asks. 

"That I was coming for Bedelia."

"Are you?" 

For a second Will is robbed of his words at the unexpected question.

"Not more than you are," Will says then. "I don't care much about her fate. Or the fate Hannibal has planned for her. But I have no interest changing the course of things. I'm here because you collected a debt."

"I asked you to talk to Hannibal for me," Jack recalls. "Maybe I can no longer pretend it can be avoided."

"Maybe that's all the advantage we'll ever have: Recognizing that our lives have been marked. And that we exist in Hannibal's world. He not in ours."

"Maybe in yours," Jack says and Will can't figure out the sentiment behind it.

"He does not yield to my wishes, Jack," Will says. "And you're a fool if you believe that."

"He's tempted to consider them. That's enough for me."

"He created a need for me to see him. I'm taking the invitation. The rest is, like you said, out of our hands."

"I don't expect you to return unchanged," Jack tells him. "You never have."

"Neither of us," Will reminds him.

"You're not going alone, Will," Jack says sternly. 

"Then we're both as guilty as he is," Will states. 

"As long as we're aware," Jack says, letting it hang in the air.

"You can't show respect of her work by disrespecting her humanity," Will warns. 

"She might forgive me."

"Will you forgive yourself?" Will asks. 

"When it comes to Miriam, I have forgotten that forgiveness exist," Jack says. 

"You're going to bear these ills until all eternity?" 

"I still believe in redemption," Jack notes. 

"Redeeming yourself by prolonging her abuse?"

"There is a universe, Will," Jack says, tight throat as he shifts in his chair uncomfortably, "in which I haven't let her down. But this isn't it. And she and I are both very aware of it. Painfully aware of it. What I carry in pain and guilt, I carry by myself."

"Good luck with that, Jack," Will says in defeat. 

"When you see him, Will," Jack adds. "Promise me one thing... Keep in mind that you're not alone."

Will tries to wave him off, thinking of Miriam, but Jack stops him with a raised finger.

"Alana and I," he says almost shyly, "we're still here. And we're here for you." 

Unsure of what to say, Will tries a smile but his muscles won't obey him. 

"You don't have to say anything," Jack starts again, recognizing Will's struggle. "Just remember."

 

* * * * *

 

Their request to interview Hannibal is green-lit twenty-four hours later and Will wonders if Hannibal had to agree to seeing them before approval. Since their visit is part of an ongoing investigation Will doubts he had much saying in the decision however.

Alana's still in Quantico when Will and Miriam arrive in Baltimore so they'll being walked down by an orderly named Denise. 

 

* * * * *

 

"Nervous?" Will asks Miriam as they head down the last fly of stairs. It's an attempt to hide his own overwhelming emotions. 

She nods which surprises Will. Somehow he's gotten used to her feelings being off limit for him. 

It itches him to say 'me too', but he swallows it down. Denise runs them through the instructions but her voice is only a blur to Will. He nods however when she asks them if they've understood. She excuses herself then to announce their arrival to Hannibal, giving him a chance to get his personal matters in order. Giving him a chance to protect those last islands of privacy that are not forcefully invaded on a daily basis. 

He'd like to blame Miriam for his unease, but it's not nervousness he feels predominately. Breathing feels tight and he feels a deep restlessness everywhere under his skin. Some part of him wants to stall, delay the inevitable. Parted atoms seeking their way back to each other. The other part of him is already latching onto the memory that's creating. Of the fateful meeting ahead. Impatient and pressing. 

Heart's beating shamelessly fast. It's embarrassing Will as if Miriam could hear it. She's grounding herself in the present and her core, the one that she reclaimed from Hannibal but that hadn't remained untouched. And Will tries to cling to his own in these past seconds, ticking down. 

"We're ready now," Denise announces, before passing them to return upstairs. Away from the devil and the grounds he haunts. 

Not ready, Will thinks, not all of us. He forces the world to stop, to give him a break, just another minute or two, another breath, another straightening of his shoulders, but Miriam looks at him with determination and just one question:

"Ready?" she asks. 

No, Will thinks. No, no, no. 

"Yes," is what he says instead.

And then she pushes the door open. 

Fresh air -- almost as fresh as outside -- and white light from above. Hardwood floors so warm, Will thinks of instruments and music. Just how Hannibal likes it. It smells of old books and yet unspoken words of concealed honesty, of emotional violence and the sweet anticipation of friendly solace.

Almost like home.

Not the devil's pit. Not a place of the dammed. But of divine grace. The contradiction is making Will feel sick.   

Hannibal stands statuesque in the light, taking in his visitors with a curious smile, his eyes as alive as they've ever been. Physically there is no hiding behind Miriam's height, but Will is grateful for his human shield. There's a pretend distance and someone to fill the space between them. The thought crosses his mind of just how exposed Miriam must feel, walking in under the quiet gaze of her abuser. A bizarre presentation of violations. An art exhibition for just Hannibal's repugnant taste. 

The option to leave is there, obviously, for two of the three people in the room, but the room is so tense Will assumes that it's actually neither of them who feels that this alternative is available. 

Time feels slow, but it's not slow, it's not slow enough for Will. Because they're coming face to face and their eyes meet, and although Will could have done well without eye contact, he can't keep himself from looking. Like old times, he thinks, like old times. And he can see his past self through Hannibal's eyes and Hannibal's past self through his own. And it's as if no time has passed, as if they have seen each other just yesterday in another conversation, heavy with meaning and in-depth significance. 

There's recognition -- in both of them -- and the moment is so clear, so soothing that it's healing to the part of Will that has always felt being neglected by everyone else in Will's life. It's the kind of recognition that is always followed by an exhilarate dash of joy and later deep satisfaction of being close. It's the kind of recognition that already carries the sting of parting pain, the profound knowledge of passing moments as the realization hits that one can only be recognized like this -- seen like this -- through unexpected encounters. Those that demand integral separation.

A look at the core of Will's empathy. Non-verbal human communication. Understanding preceding speech. Emotions as language. Sincerity in cruelty and affection alike. An overwhelming connection. 

"Hello," Hannibal says. His words reach Will from another time. Past and present merging in reunion. 

"Dr. Lecter," Miriam says and takes a slightly stronger stance than usual. Feet parted at shoulder-length, her hands crossing behind her back when Hannibal lets his gaze roam over the prosthetic. Will knows it's not the artificial limb he's looking at, but the scar where it's attached. 

Will doesn't say anything, can't even force a nod, but he swallows thickly. 

"Will," Hannibal says, recognizing him verbally at last. 

"Hi," Will says like a teenager playing it cool. Hannibal awards the attempt with a twist in the corner of his mouth. 

"I haven't been expecting to see you," Hannibal tells him. "Certainly not so soon. It isn't any less striking though."

Miriam looks over to Will, lips tense and sealed. After all, they came here fore Will to talk. For Will to look. Get attuned. 

"I wouldn't have thought you two to get along," Hannibal adds. "And yet here you are. Crossing the threshold together." He considers them for a moment. "The ensemble suggests that either Jack directed this visit or that you revert your steps in search of something lost. Are you missing something, Miriam? Or did Will take you here in a quest of his own?" he asks her before turning to Will. "Does your imagination seek a little nudge to make the jump?"

"Bedelia has let me know recently that you alluded to the idea of me being interested in causing her harm," Will says, borrowing Miriam's professionalism. 

"I felt it was only appropriate to warn her of potential consequences," Hannibal says with a casual shrug. 

"Consequences?" Will asks. "For?" he wonders, drawing out the 'o'.

"Sometimes it's not our choices getting us into trouble, but simply coincidence," Hannibal tells him. 

"According to her, it was neither her choice nor coincidence. It was all you," Will reminds him. 

"I have no doubt about your interest in causing me harm," Hannibal says. "In fact, considering my current surroundings, it leaves me with vitalizing excitement when I reminisce about your passion, Will. Not your righteousness. But your passion."

"Telling Bedelia that I was coming to murder her is a testament to your passion, not mine," Will argues. "I couldn't care less about what _you had during your time in Florence._ If anything, any person surviving you is one death I don't have to feel guilty for."

"The way you care in your least amount possible is impressively passionate, Will," Hannibal says, looking over to Miriam for affirmation. Will can't see if she's giving him just that. He looks pleased nonetheless.

"I'm passionate about being falsely accused," Will says. "Again. Being set up. By you," he adds and because he feels bold he takes a step towards the glass separating them. "Again."

"You and I have began to blur," Hannibal says, quoting Will right back to his face. Miriam moves, closes the ranks. If to support him or control him, Will can't say. He's too focused on his own anger. The passionate traitor.

"Do you have interest in harming Dr. Du Maurier?" Miriam asks then and Will can't hide the shock it sends through him to hear her voice. She's composed, but he himself isn't ready for composure yet. He isn't ready for Hannibal to talk to anyone else but him. The sole claim -- Miriam's voice rings in his ears. It enrages him anew.

"My interest is of little relevance seeing as I couldn't do anything to pursue it," Hannibal says, opening his arms, inviting them to look around.

"Unless you believe in the concept of stakeholders," Miriam says, voice cold and her chin a little higher than Will is used to.

"You haven't answered me yet, Miriam. Whose interest do you represent?" Hannibal asks her.

"It's only of relevance to you that it's not your interest," she says. "Not anymore." For some reason Will senses a hint of pride in Hannibal's expression, although it could have been a sign of joyful surprise. A challenge. An opportunity.

"Did Jack cling to you in his haze of guilt and pity? Special agent, I assume," Hannibal pokes and the cruelty breezes over Will too.

"He was lucky enough to have something left to cling to," Miriam says, voice as steady as before. "As for my rank, I'd like to remind you that I now hold arrest authority as well as the right to conduct minor and major investigations. Additionally, I am authorized to carry my firearm when I'm off duty. As a mere trained and recruited agent I would have fewer clearance." Will would have bowed to her display of self-awareness and the bait she threw at him, but he can't help feeling provoked on Hannibal's behalf.

"It's easy for me to understand Jack now," Hannibal tells her. "As I, too, feel fortunate that we were able to meet again." He starts walking up and down the length of his cell. Will follows him. A mix of curiosity and suspense shimmering in the air. "We spent a lot of time together, Miriam. It's a shame you can't remember any of it. But it's a blessing that life brought us here again," he stops to face her. "To make new ones."

"I imagine Dr. Du Maurier feels blessed to still be here," Miriam says, once again steering them into calmer waters. "To make memories. And I imagine she'd like to keep it that way."

"I'm not expecting to share any with her. She's never been fond of state institutions," Hannibal just says.

"Have you threatened anyone else with my arrival?" Will asks, having returned to himself.

"As I've said before, Will, I am in no position to hand out threats," Hannibal says.

"Warnings then," Will corrects himself.

"Concerns," Hannibal finalizes.

"Who else?" Will demands, ignoring Hannibal's pedantics.

"It appears to me, I should have send Ms. Lass here a letter stating my concerns," Hannibal says. "Similar circumstances. But it seems your arrival hasn't brought any harm, yet." He looks at Miriam then. "Or has it?"

"What were you trying to achieve?" Will wonders. "Creating an alliance that doesn't exist?"

"You and I have very different reasons for actions that may create resembling events. And yet you see my cause as clearly as it was your own. And I yours as if it was mine. I was merely alerting Bedelia to a possibility."

"A possibility that ultimately not furthers your cause but fulfills it," Will argues.

And Hannibal smiles.

"A possibility that would fulfill my expectations. Not my cause, Will," he says. "Some interests maybe." He glances at Miriam. "Hopes even."

"Or longing," Will adds giving voice to his association.

"I fear you'll remain an underachiever, Will?" Hannibal remarks. "Great potential yet slacking aspirations."

"My aspirations are peaking only when presented with your lies and manipulations, Dr. Lecter," Will says, soaked in anger and impatience.

"Pointing out a possibility can hardly be considered a lie," Hannibal says. "In the past, Will, you have taken more offense in truths than lies about yourself. In fact, the greatest, most self-denying lies have always been told by yourself. I fear this might be another case of you being offended by a possibility because even it's non-existence in hypotheses is unbearable to you. You defend yourself to your inner critic. It's almost saddening to see you haven't changed."

"And embarrassing to see that you haven't either," Will says defensively. Even before he's finished his sentence he knows that he's losing focus.

"Your righteousness and your passion are so intertwined, it's impossible to experience one without the other," Hannibal says.

"Like cruelty and empathy," Will says.

"The reason you experienced our relationship as violent," Hannibal says, "is because you're so preoccupied with the identity you paint for yourself that you reject those who want look at you instead. Most people in your life have been satisfied to look at the painting you presented. I wouldn't deny the cruelty and violence of a single unwelcomed look. Yet, I know you experience the beauty of one that is invited. I know that because, we shared it just before."

Even though it is undeniably true, the exposure hits Will completely unprepared. Inside, he stumbles and retreats, but he won't give Hannibal the satisfaction of backing off.

"You are good at psychiatry, Hannibal," Will says and instead of pulling away he takes another step towards the glass. "But you're a terrible friend."

"Did you walk in here as a friend, Will?" Hannibal asks, mirroring Will's stride. "Or for a friend?"

"I need you to stop looking at the picture _you_ painted," Will says then, pleading over the exhaustion running through him. "I need you to abandon it. For good."

"Will you do the same?" Hannibal ask, suddenly almost gently.

"A fresh start," Will agrees. He can feel Miriam's eyes on his back, and although he tells himself the judgement stems from his inner critic, he feels the familiar accusations and the panicking stress of confusion coming at him from behind.

 

* * * * *


	4. Chapter 4

“You look a little pale,” Freddie Lounds calls, jogging up to them in high-heeled leather boots the second Will and Miriam exit Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. “Not you, Graham,” she adds, with a shameless smile. “In fact, you look a little _blushy_.”

“What do you want Freddie?” Will asks not bothering to stop for a chat. He’s relieved that Miriam gives no intention of coming to a halt either.

“Doing my job,” Freddie says casually. “I hope you are too,” she says, getting her voice recorder ready. “Or has this been a personal visit? Receiving more instructions?”

“Where you instructed by Frederick Chilton to follow us?” Miriam asks.

“I didn’t follow you here,” Freddie says with a wry laugh. “If Will Graham comes back to Maryland, it was clearly only a matter of time before he’ll step by.”

“You have great timing then,” Miriam says annoyed. 

“Or a good source,” Will adds, glancing back at the hauntingly still building.

Freddie smiles and tilts her head to the side as she always does when she refuses to confirm the obvious.

Will pulls his jacket a little tighter whereas Miriam just walks straight ahead dismissively.

“I’m going to keep an eye one you, Will,” Freddie says before letting herself fall behind. “I can see you!”

Will’s feet have stopped walking before he can assign a conscious thought to the action. He turns around somewhat slowly but it’s not by his own choice but his body bouncing between fight or flight.

“This better not be a threat, Freddie,” Will says. “Or an admission to more stalking.”

“You underestimate me, Will,” Freddie says. “Or you are over-estimating your ability to hide behind that handsomely rugged exterior. I can see your inner struggle. Or the aftermath of it. Have you decided to give yourself to him once more?”

“You should write novels, Freddie,” he tells her, shaking his head. “Journalism isn’t your genre.”

“And law enforcement isn't yours,” she says, eyes seductive and determined at once.

Will turns to follow Miriam who had left him standing alone and headed to his car instead. For a moment he is surprised not to find her at his side, ready to hold him back. As if the responsibility to control his emotions wasn’t his alone. A self-centered assumption that leaves him in shame.

 

* * * * *

 

“You let him get to you,” Miriam says later, much more conversational rather than accusingly.

So their car talks are becoming a thing, Will thinks. Limited space creating an allusion of intimacy and shelter. The passing landscape alluding to the transience of spoken words. Confessions and unrevised thoughts as fleeting as the light. Impossible to catch and carry into the open of the world.

“And he got you good,” she adds, tearing Will out of the depths of his mind.

“I had to let him in, so he’ll share in return.” Will just says. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“And did he?” she asks. “Share in return?”

“He wants to play,” Will says with a tight jaw. “He wants me to play along.”

“You said, you would know if he was talking to someone,” Miriam says, “when you had a chance to talk to him.” She pauses, but not long enough for Will to pick up where she left off. “Now that you did,” she goes on. “Do you know?”

 

* * * * *

 

"So he feels... what?" Jack asks, not having been able to catch up with Will's rambling. Will himself hasn't even been able to catch up with his own thoughts. "Affronted?" Jack offers. "Provoked?"

"No," Will says pacing in front of Jack's desk. "No, Jack, no. That's not it."

"Humiliated?" Jack asks then, essentially trying to solve Will's associations for him. "Degraded?"

"It's almost impossible for Hannibal to allow a situation that would humiliate him. Much less allow himself to _feel_ humiliated," Will says dismissively. Jack's trying, but not helping at all. "You weren't there, Jack. Mason could have done anything to Hannibal at Muskrat Farm. But it wouldn't have humiliated Hannibal. With every single action Mason only proved to him that he was in fact-," he struggles to find just the right word, "pathetic," he tries. "Repulsive. Vulgar. Not even worth the flesh on his bones. It wasn't even a waste of meat to give it to the dogs." A small shudder, not at the memories, but how easy he slips into Hannibal's perspective now. "Mason humiliated only himself. Hannibal preserves grace wherever he goes."

Jack pinches his nose at Will's words and Miriam -- having taken her irritating spot against the wall once more -- clears her throat almost bashful. But it's an attempt to protect Will from slipping further into what both her and Jack consider inappropriate descriptions of his understanding of Hannibal. Will can't blame them.

"Just tell me, Will," Jack says. "I don't need to know about Lecter's ability to preserve grace in the eye of torture. I need to know what's going on in his head _right now."_

"I rejected him," Will says slowly, aware of how vulnerable his voice sounds. "And he turned himself in. I knew he would."

"Like a stubborn child," Jack comments. 

"If Hannibal is wounded, he destroys what he loves rather than having things taken from him. It's the only way loss is bearable to him. If it was caused by his own hand," Will tries, concealing what is actually a defense as a clarification. 

"Avoiding loss by self-sabotaging," Miriam says so clinically it violently detaches Will from his perception.

"Breaking his toys so no one else can play with them?" Jack draws another comparison. "Sounds almost too trivial for the brilliant doctor."

"A narcissistic personality fault," Miriam says immediately before Will has a chance to interject to any of it. "Eradicating failure through preemptive striking."

"Pretending to be above failure," Jack adds. "And reclaiming defeat as sacrifice."

"Harm becomes self-harm," Miriam goes on, they're just throwing the ball back and forth, not looking at each other. But looking at Will. "Elevating principles until they become postulates."

"Thus creating religion," Jack says unimpressed. "And the devil at its heart."

"The prosecuted becomes the martyr," Miriam concludes. 

"And now he demands worship," Jack says. "Once again, he demands us to gather and admire his glory."

"That's not who he is," Will interrupts finally.

" _That_ ," Miriam jumps in instantly and with more vigor than Will has ever heard in her voice, "is exactly who Hannibal Lecter is."

"Right down to the core of his rotten heart," Jack adds, standing by Miriam's assessment despite or maybe because of his better judgement. "He made us sit at his table, Will. It's the only altar he needs. And his _Bon Appétit_ the only Amen you'll hear muttered in his church."

"He calls you righteous in such a derogatory way," Miriam says, "as if the word offends him. But it's not righteousness he despises. It's deviant morality. That he won't tolerate where he sees his own virtues applied, where he sees his own righteous order defiled. He doesn't see an infidel in you. Only a sinner. And he can't wait to hear your confession and release you of your sins."

"I would rather be known as an honest sinner than a lying hypocrite," Jack quotes, encouraging Miriam once more in her view. "Is that how he sees us?" he asks her. 

"Not he," Miriam just says, pointedly not taking her eyes off Will. 

"What is this, Jack?" Will asks then. "Why do you ask me for a profile if you already have one that fits what you want to see?"

"I don't trust that your profile is free from what _you_ want to see," Jack tells him. 

"I'm not blinded by him," Will insist.

"You don't just profile," Jack says. "You assume point of views. I wouldn't expect that goes untainted. If I needed Hannibal's opinion on himself, I might just ask you. And only you. But I need a way to handle him. Before he handles me."

"You asked me to talk to him," Will reminds him -- again--, "and now you don't want to hear what I have to say. Not unfiltered."

"Can you blame me?" Jack asks. "This is a healthy filter," he adds. "For the both of us."

"You can't label him like he's just another criminal passing your files," Will says, anger building in his spine. The lack of emotional resonance in the room throws him off and only balls his anger tighter.

"Does that offend him too?" Jack asks unmoved.

"You're making a mistake, Jack," Will says. "You have no upper hand in this. There can be no upper hand."

"Just tell me what he wants from you. And who he's talking to," Jack demands so complacent that it makes Will want to keep his thoughts to himself. "You said you'd look at it like you would look at a crime scene. I'm ready hear about it."

"He's not resentful, Jack," Will says then, swallowing his pride. Or Hannibal's. "He's not resentful because he believes it was his choice. He's not _plotting_ revenge. And any open promises left he'll seal when opportunities arise. He's not coming for Chilton. Nor Bedelia."

"The articles?" Jack asks. 

"He's not talking with anyone," Will clarifies. "He's talking to someone. Someone he cannot otherwise reach. Not like he sends cards."

"The woman in Florence," Jack speculates. "Can't write her a card without ratting her out."

"He's not giving instructions," Will says. "He's not telling anyone to go round and kill people."

"What _is_ he doing, Will?" Jack ask, leaning forward in his impatience. 

"He's telling a story."

 

* * * * *

 

 

"Telling a story how?" Alana asks a day later, sitting half-way on Jack's desk, supporting the other part of her hips by leaning onto her walking stick. She's wearing a suit in dark blue, appearing not quite like herself, but another version of Jack, who's sitting right behind her. They're becoming distorted mirror images of each other, yet blending and merging in their manners. 

"And what kind of story," Jack asks, shoulders tense, because Will had let him wait this long to provide any suitable answers. 

"And how does that connect with Dr. Du Maurier and Dr. Lecter's _concerns_?" Miriam asks from her seat next to Will which she barely fills. 

"Almost every sorrow can be borne if we put them into a story," Will recites. "He's telling her about me."

Alana shuts her eyes for a second and takes a deep breath while Jack runs a frustrated hand over his head. Miriam doesn't react noticeably at all.  Somehow Will finds himself thankful for it again. 

"How do you know?" Alana asks then.

"The rebuttals," Will says, "he makes a lot of references to friendship." He has to pause. For his sake and everyone else's in the room. "And love," he adds.

"And that means he's talking about you?" Alana sounds skeptical at best if not condescending.

"He puts meaning to shared experiences," Will just says. "And I understand those references as I was part of said experiences."

"Different from our experiences?" she wonders. 

"I was... closer," Will says, before giving it a second thought. It's the expression in her face that makes him realize at last. "Closer to who he really is," Will tries to clarify, but it doesn't help his cause. 

"Do you enjoy it, Will?" she asks bluntly. "Your casting as love interest? Even after everything that happened. Even now? Still?" she wonders. "For most people it wouldn't be a satisfying enough role."

"I never auditioned," he argues. 

"Oh," she says astonished. "I think you did plenty of auditioning during your little games. When you played bait for your obscure traps. And you played so well, Will," she says. "But we never applauded. I wonder why." 

"I never lied to you," Will reminds her. "I told you what he was. You didn't believe me until it was too late."

"I started believing at just the right time," she says. "For me. For you it was too late anyway."

"You said Baltimore was your own fault," Will says. "Have you changed your mind?"

"I said it was my own choice," Alana corrects him. "I didn't know it was a fault in your mind."

"What about the letter Lecter send to Dr. Du Maurier," Jack interrupts and Will is actually grateful for his intervention. "I'd say that has very little to do with story telling."

"Unrelated," Will just says. "Or how Hannibal put it: mere hopes."

"And the threats? The formatting? Dr. Chilton?" Jack adds. 

"He knew you were going to get me, Jack," Will says. "He just wanted me to read it too. He wanted me to listen in."

"Why did you insist on seeing him, Will?" Jack ask then. "Don't tell me you didn't know the moment you first laid eyes on the articles that he was writing about you."

"I had a suspicion," Will says. "I needed confirmation."

"Confirmation of what?" Jack presses.

"That I wasn't the only recipient."

"Are you sure you're not?" Jack asks. "After everything he just wants you to _listen in_?"

"He didn't think I would come," Will tells him. "He thought you'd show me. That I would reject you too. He wasn't prepared to see me."

"He thought you'd be more consistent," Alana says. "And doesn't that make him so much more relatable?" she adds mockingly. It stings.

"You making it hard for me to trust you, Will," Jack says, restraining a burst of anger.

"I couldn't be sure until I saw him," Will insists. 

"So what you're telling me is that Lecter has no intentions to kill anyone and that he orchestrated this entire circus to ensure you would read his love letters to you," Jack sums it up bluntly. 

"You don't understand, Jack," Will says. Desperation and frustration over the inability to express and comprehend mingling in the room. 

"Then help me understand," Jack insists. 

"Dr. Chilton," Miriam interjects. "He's not in danger?"

"His career is," Will says annoyed. 

"But the purpose of the threats has been to alert Jack," she goes on, ignoring Will's remark. 

"And Alana," Will says with a side glance. 

"There hasn't been a moment since Hannibal left where I haven't been alerted," Alana says, turning to look at Jack instead of Will. 

"So they would get you involved," Miriam says. 

"And they did," Will adds. "He knew they would."

"But he didn't think you would come to see him," she goes on.

"Much less with you," Will admits. 

"He didn't think we would get along," Miriam says, using Hannibal's own words. 

"His image of you is similar to that of Bedelia," Will says. "You're not a victim to him. He thought I'd see what he's seeing."

"But you don't?" she asks, same openness and lack of judgement as if this line of questioning wasn't moving towards her. 

"I did," Will admits. "I told Jack not to trust you."

"What changed?" she asks as Jack leans forward, elbows propped against the table with his chin resting on his folded hands. 

"You convinced me to see what you see instead," Will says, making eye contact with Miriam next to him. He tends to avoid her eyes because they have a constant residue of terror. It's unsettling. And distracting. It's an admission of Will's guilt that he offers her the respect of human connection now. 

"His hopes for Dr. Maurier were that you would kill her," she says. Her brain connecting dots rather than bothering with gratitude for Will's changing opinion. "Does he have similar hopes for me? Us?"

"I can't see him objecting to that," Will says, causing Jack to stand and move around his desk. 

"You're slipping, Will," Jack says. "I don't allow Dr. Lecter's perspective to be the point of reference anymore. Not in this office. And we agreed upon it. I don't want his language base lining this investigation. I don't want his words spoken here as if they were truths. That applies to you too, Miriam," he tells her, although what she had done had enabled communication rather then deform it.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she says nonetheless. Will remains silent. 

"What purpose does the story have, Will?" Alana asks then. 

"The original recipient," Jack jumps in. "What are they supposed to do with the story?"

"See me," Will says. "Know me," -- his words melting with Hannibal's voice once more --, "and find me."

 

* * * * *

 

"What you said about Miriam," Alana starts, walking side by side with Will into her own office. They're alone now and Will doesn't know whether he should be thankful for it or dreading the conversation yet to come. "That she convinced you to see her the way she perceives herself? What do Jack and I have to do for you to show us the same courtesy?" She doesn't sit, so Will doesn't dare to either. "When will our wounds become valid injuries in your eyes?"

"You were hurt, Alana," Will tells her. "I'm not denying that hurt."

"And yet," she starts, letting it linger, "you deny me the repercussions. Deny me healing even."

"I don't agree with where your hurt lead you," Will says. "I don't think it's who you are at all, Alana."

"So you only refuse to adjust your perception, because you don't like how I see myself," she clarifies. "Have you become this bitter?"

"Bitterness. Grief. Sentimentality. I wish I could have spared you this change," Will tells her. 

"I don't," Alana counters. "I don't do that," she says with more force. "Dwell in alternate realities. I have a good life, Will," she tells him. "The only thing that concerns me is that I'd like to keep it."

"You're evolution would make him proud," Will says. 

"Do you always have to do that?" she asks. "Hide behind him? If you want to judge me, feel free to do that. But your comparisons have no effect on me. You claim to loathe him but you only loathe the fact that you have to deny yourself the fulfillment of his company. Thus you loathe everything reminding you of him."

"In the past," Will starts, "it was my resemblance with him that terrified you. Now you feel satisfied that you improved upon me? That you out-did me?"

"No one could ever _out-do_ you, Will," she tells him. "You're the only one who understands him."

"You bathe in your emotions, Alana," Will says quietly. "But when you emerge, you're untouched. They're pearls rolling off your skin. You're never in danger of drowning in them. That's what fascinated him. You are immune to emotional manipulation. All he got from you was due to his humanly charm. Not his devilish calculations."

Alana's taken aback by his description for a moment. At a loss of words. And appropriate emotional response. If she's moved then it drips right off her.

"Charm can be used to manipulate," she just says. 

"His curiosity about you was genuine," Will argues. 

"So is my lack of compassion," she shoots back. "Do you think that's what I care about? Whether his _curiosity_ was genuine? I don't need his approval as much as you do, Will."

"If I needed it, I've set myself up for disappointment," Will argues.

"Haven't you?" she asks, then responds to his silence."Self-sacrifice is another luxury I don't have, Will," she says. "I have a child. And a family to look after."

"And yet you spend so much time here," Will says. "At the FBI's. Almost as if you were avoiding them."

"It's easy to dislike you when you sound like him, Will," she tells him. "One day you'll have to rid yourself off his coat and learn to walk in your own skin again."

"And I assume you and Jack will be waiting with open arms," Will says, weaving sarcasm through his words with a sharp tongue.

"Is this how it's going to be?" Alana asks. "Haven't we been through enough? Do we have to keep hurting each other?"

 "I don't feel like I know you anymore," Will admits. 

"And I don't feel like you want to know me at all," Alana says with the slightest film of tears over her eyes. 

"I have to see him again, Alana," Will says and she starts shaking her head even before he's finished the sentence. "I still have questions."

"This is not my concern," she just says, turning away from him so she can sit down at her desk. A barrier between them to add to the distance. 

"He won't agree to it," Will presses. "Not before we've rolled up Hannibal's past."

"When it comes to Hannibal, Jack and I don't make decisions without the other," she says. "I don't intend to start now."

"You could talk to him," Will suggests. "Convince him"

"So you can continue keeping things from me?" she asks. "From us? You got him what he wanted. But you didn't deliver anything yourself."

"There was nothing to deliver," Will argues. 

"How can I trust you?" she asks. "After everything? How can anyone trust you?" 

"I'm here, Alana," Will reminds her. "Not even he anticipated that."

 

* * * * *

 

"I don't see how seeing him again will take this investigation any further?" Miriam says, scanning the area for any signs of unusual activities. Probably looking out for ginger trouble. But Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane looks as majestically calm as always. Rigid. Fixed. Inhabited. Dead. 

A beautiful shell housing madness and abjection. A storm of heated violence under a jar. Tightly sealed to keep the demons inside. And the devil.

"Frankly, I don't understand why Jack would agree to this," she adds, crooking her head to peak in the rear view mirror. A harsh wind blows between the car and BSHCI in hundred feet distance. "There's nothing to gain but in humiliation," she says, clear vision and direct words while Will finds himself lost in the fog of ambiguity again. 

"There's power in shamelessness," Will just says. "I don't fear his taunting mockery."

"Shamelessly seeking it?" she asks. "He's the only one without shame," Miriam argues. "You said it yourself. He preserves grace even in humiliation." She leans back in her seat so lightly, Will somehow expects her to just glide through it. "You and I though," she goes on, eyes straight ahead, "we take shame wherever we go. It clings to us like a wet dress."

"Nothing fits like a wet dress." Will props himself against the window, staring ahead just like Miriam next to him. Not as focused though.

"Wearing your shame doesn't make it disappear," Miriam tells him. "It makes you look like a fool."

"It disguises the emotions underneath," Will argues. 

"Shame is not a natural emotion," Miriam says as if she was recalling notes from a lecture. "Regret is. Fear of abandonment. Of isolation. Shame serves no evolutionary purpose."

"Except conformity," Will says. 

"Conformity is poison to evolution." Miriam glances at him finally. "You don't fear humiliation because you are already isolated."

"I would argue we have that in common," Will says, not returning her glance. 

"I'm not ashamed of what happened to me," she tells him. "I'm ashamed that what happened to me has effects that are beyond me. I'm ashamed that it can't be contained."

"Then isolation is not what we have in common," Will backtracks. 

"No."

"You're different from who you appear to be, Miriam." 

"That should be familiar to you," she just says. 

"We were sent on the same path," Will says. "But we arrived at different places."

"We walked the same path," Miriam corrects him. "But our experiences don't match."

"Two realities," Will says. "And both true."

"An almost unbearable thought," she adds. 

"Because it can't be?" Will asks. "Or because it shouldn't be?"

"Surviving Dr. Lecter," Miriam starts, "it leaves you with an alternate sense of normality and possibility. With an alternative sense of reasons and consequences. I can empathize with your preoccupation with what  _should_ be, Will. It makes you feel safe."

"Where do you feel safe, Miriam?" Will asks. "Why did you come back?"

"Why did you come back?" she asks in return. 

"Because Jack asked me to."

"Because it was what you should be doing?"

"He said you would return me," Will says. "What possible debt could he have collected from you for you to take this on. What reason could you have to take both of us on." Will pauses before he corrects himself. "The three of us. You're last on his list, Miriam. He wouldn't have come for you at all. Now you're here flaunting his markings right in his face. You put yourself back on the list. I don't understand why."

"Do you know how many people walked away from this, Will?" she asks. "Just you."

"You sound like Alana," Will remarks, out of context, a random thought like a loose string of a spider web floating through the air. 

Before it sticks. 

"Are you and Alana friends now?" Will asks as if this was some high school clique drama.

"Is this why she stopped being your therapist? Jack's got his self-help group alright. The trauma of Hannibal the Cannibal? Is that it? All of you bonding over the Ripper's touch? Sounds healthy to me."

"Healthy relationships are a myth," Miriam says then, unimpressed with his anger. It cools Will as much as it irritates him. Her presence is disarming his moods as if they were nothing but a shadow in his peripheral vision.

"Because all relationships are messy?" Will asks, throwing a careful glance. He doesn't want it to be returned. Somehow she seems to sense it. Not turning to make eye contact, instead letting him look.

"Because health is a state of being. Relationships however are not," she says, letting Will's eyes wander over the side of her face. She's remarkably still, and although Will can only imagine the strength it costs her to endure this self-imposed objectification, she appears thoroughly at ease. Almost dream-like surreal. "It's as if to say passing time was healthy," she says and Will watches her lips move.

"Interactions can be healthy," Will argues. "Or unhealthy."

"Interactions can be hurtful," she corrects him. "They can be toxic. They can be healing. The influence a relationship will have is determined by the level of health we bring into it."

"Be sick, get sicker," Will says. "Poison won't turn into potion."

"Destruction can be creation," she says. The clarity of her voice shining a blinding light on Hannibal's words. Will has to look away.

"Colonialism of the soul," Will says. "Humanity's ugly habit."

"Gentrification," Miriam says and Will is glad for the next glance he dares to take as she smiles to herself.

"Aesthetically pleasing to the privileged," Will says, allowing himself a smile too. "While causing crises to the poor."

"My re-creation wasn't aesthetically pleasing," she says and then lets her head roll to the side to face him. He returns her the favor of an undisturbed look. "It was as brutal as the destruction."

"Re-birth," Will says. "It's as ugly as the original one."

"Not beautiful?" she asks. "God's last wonder?"

"Blood and screams and hours of struggle," Will says. "And afterwards exhaustion."

"And life," she interjects.

"It's beautiful to those in there," he says with a nod towards Baltimore's hospital. "Everyone else pretends."

"You can see it then," she says. "You can see what they see. _How_ they see," she corrects herself. "Was my re-birth beautiful to Dr. Lecter?"

"He'd argue you're more yourself now than you'd ever been," Will tells her. "And you're still growing into yourself. You're becoming is beautiful to him."

"I'm his creation," Miriam remarks.

"You were built in his image," Will says. "He surly relished in your sight."

"And yours?" she asks.

"I'm still in the womb," he just says.

"He said I was pitiful," Miriam remembers and Will can sense her discomfort at having to taste the word. It's sour.

"He said Jack would feel pity," Will reminds her. "Nothing about you is pitiful."

"Does Jack match his prediction?" she asks.

"I'm sure you read him as well as I can, Miriam," Will says.

"I can read him," she admits. "But I can't feel him."

"Jack's full of guilt and remorse," Will says then. "There's hardly any room for pity. Your presence will always be a reflection of himself."

"You don't think he sees me at all." It's not even a question when she says it.

"He holds on to you, because you lived," Will says. "You're God's last wonder to him. The teacup that came back together."

"Seeing only himself in me?" she asks.

"His capability to shatter you," Will tells her.

"It wasn't him."

"He let it happen."

"Do you see yourself in him?" she asks then. "Do you see someone else in me?"

"I don't want to talk about her," Will says, seeing Abigail's smile behind his eyes. He allows himself a moment of sinking grief.

"You are already talking about her," she says.

"Why do you hold on to him?" Will asks then. "To Jack? After everything?"

"What does Jack have to offer that you didn't?" Miriam asks, making Will feel naked and cold.

"Did it ever occur to you?" Will asks. "To seek salvation with your creator? Jack and I have both been guilty of sending people into the dark. We were both waiting for someone to return to us."

"But she stayed in the dark," Miriam finishes.

"She chose the devil," Will says.

"You say Jack is struck with guilt," Miriam says, almost carefully. "That it's the only thing he sees."

"The only thing he feels," he corrects.

"It's not true, Will," she says, so quietly, it's barely more than a whisper. Will frowns. He's not used to being told he's wrong. Not when it concerns his empathy. Not when it concerns his associations. Not in the absence of manipulating motives. When he turns to look at Miriam he can't make out an attempt in gas lighting. There's cautious fondness. Rays of fear and uncertainty. And the trace of love.

Not burning heat. And passion. Not forceful desire. Or repulsion over sizzling need. Wild and untamed. And nothing but dangerous.

Light though. Dim and flameless. Illuminating a mere rabbit hole cave in between rock walls of trust. A place for wounded animals to hide. To heal. For birth and breeding. Bedded on sand and twigs and self-pulled fur. A place where winter is mild but death is lonely.

"It's not remorse he's struck with," Miriam repeats gently. "It's responsibility."

"It's the same thing."

"It's not the same thing," she argues. "It's the same thing for you."

"You remind him of his greatest mistake," Will says, blinking away the image of his. "And he bears it so well. Having you walk in his halls."

"Did you offer it?" Miriam asks. "An invitation to exist?" she pauses, allows Will to take it in before she goes on. "Do you think only Jack feels reminded of his mistakes? There's not a single person at the FBI that looks at me and doesn't see what they perceive as Jack's failure. He could have hidden me away, couldn't he? I won't deny what you think he sees. What I reflect. But he keeps looking," she says, eyebrows furrowed as if she doesn't quite believe it herself. "Through the pain of his own decisions. The measurement in which others judge his faults."

"You can't love him for offering you space, Miriam," Will says. "For giving you a place to return to. And a reason to come back."

"I can love him for holding the door open," she says. "For as long as I took to walk through. I can love him for providing safe passage."

"He put you in danger before," Will reminds her. "He's doing it again just now. Jack would use you to bring Hannibal down. Even if he denies it. You're valuable to him. Just as I was," he says. "Or still am. And I begged him to use me as bait. Don't beg him, Miriam. Walk through the door once more and walk for the rest of your life. That's the only way you might be safe."

"He wouldn't deny you his perception," Miriam says. "Jack would let you hate him before he'll even think of trying to wash his hands clean of his responsibility."

"What he feels for you is not untouched by the dark." Will says. "What kind of relief do you offer? From guilt? Or responsibility?"

"Abigail needed to live for humanity to remain in your darkest moment," Miriam says. "A heavy burden to bear."

"What about Jack's humanity?" Will asks. "How much does it weigh you down?"

"It keeps me from being washed away." She turns to look to the building surrounded by mist and a gray sky. "When the stream pulls me towards him," Miriam says, and Will knows who she means, "I remember that I survived. That what I saw wasn't the end. What Jack saw. And what he did," she says, once more not talking about Jack's actions, but Hannibal's. "Not everyone likes to be reminded of that."

"Of the horror that walks among us," Will says.

"I'm never shocked about what brings a life to its end," Miriam admits. "I'm shocked at what a life can endure. And still not cease to beat and breathe and move forward."

"A painful reminder of human resilience," Will says. "Sometimes too painful."

"You have insight into some of the most abject things that human beings have done to others. You understand their reasons why," Miriam says. "Do you understand why life persists? Resists to be torn from what we consider most fragile and perishable."

"Self-preservation," Will says. "The instinct hardest to overcome."

"Then you know how hard it was for her to leave you behind," Miriam says, so gentle and honest it causes Will pain to let her words be heard. And be true.

"I wasn't in love with her," Will says as if he needs to clarify it. As if she could have gotten the wrong idea over his wet eyes and closed up throat.

"You loved her," Miriam just says.

"So much he had to kill her to match his pain. Had to take her from me so he could forgive. Had to take her from me. Again," Will says desperately. "I had to see her die for a third time. Like a nightmare. And it won't stop. I see her dying in my sleep. I see her dying behind my eyes," he goes on suddenly not knowing how to stop himself from talking about her. "He thinks it makes us even," Will says. "But how can _I_  have caused him so much pain?"

Miriam remains quiet as Will forcefully resists the temptation of looking just where Hannibal is waiting for them.

"He offered me a place to ask these questions," he says then. Can only resist to look. Not to spell it out. "He turned himself in, so I knew where to go. I never wanted to go."

"You never wanted?" Miriam asks. "Or you knew you shouldn't want to? I have wanted to go at times," she admits.

"I have to see him alone, Miriam. I _need_ to," Will confesses. To himself as much as to her.

Miriam takes a long look at him, eyes piercing through every layer of deniable and unaddressed emotions. Will can hardly stand it without the urge to squirm in his seat.

"Just know that I'm not Jack, Will," Miriam says eventually. "I won't help you carry whatever you're responsible for. And I won't let you shift any of it to Jack either. If he gets to you," she adds, "the repercussions are your own."

 

* * * * *

 

She waits in the car as Will walks up to the building in front of him. He feels equally smaller as it appears to have grown since the last time he's been there.

He feels heavy and dry, entirely unfit for the neat space that is Hannibal's cell and the visitors section in front of him. He feels the heavy burden of Abigail's ghost and -- for the first time since he picked up the phone almost two years ago -- the weight of his own betrayal.

"You don't look so well, Will," Hannibal says when they're face to face once more. "Not as feisty."

"I don't know why I'm here," Will says.

"I'm sure you do," Hannibal tells him. "But you tend to keep confusing thoughts to yourself. You retreat with your thoughts when the lines of morality start to blur."

"I keep saying I need answers," Will says. "Now that I'm here, I don't want to hear your reasons."

"The answers will come to you by themselves," Hannibal tells him quite sure of that. "As they always have."

"I wonder if I came for an apology instead," Will says. "Knowing they never come to me at all."

"I don't think either of us believes in apologies," Hannibal assumes. "A well-meant lie is often more powerful than a lukewarm or halfhearted apology."

"I came to talk about Abigail," Will admits. "We hadn't had time to talk about her death before."

"We've talked a lot about Abigail's death before, Will," Hannibal argues. "When she was still alive."

"When you let me believe she was dead," Will says angrily. "After you made me believe I killed her."

"The circumstances of her death were quite similar," Hannibal says, becoming more calm the more agitated Will gets. Much like Miriam. It's not cooling to Will at all though. It's infuriating. "We both had our hands in that bowl," Hannibal states at last.

"My responsibility is only by association," Will says. "Not by participation."

"Cause and effect are only elements of a limited concept," Hannibal tells him. "Indistinguishable once time reverses."

"Does she roam your mind palace?" Will asks. "I hope she haunts it." He can see Abigail just as clearly next to himself as he can see her on Hannibal's side of the glass. Two realities, he thinks. And both true.

"Abigail learned love through her father's ways, Will," Hannibal says. "I don't think you would have been able to accept her love as much as you craved it."

"She didn't feel loved when she died," Will says.

"How did you feel, Will?" Hannibal asks, and Will feels the weight of six eyes on him.

"You talk about me a lot lately," Will says. "I read what you got to say."

"I never felt I had to deny the nature of our relationship," Hannibal says. "That is what you do best."

"You managed to rid yourself of the guilt you bear for Mischa," Will tells him. "You won't be able to do the same with Abigail. You won't be able to extract the same amount of compassion. Is that why you don't mention her?" he asks.

"You draw parallels where there are none," Hannibal says and Will believes to see him tense up ever so slightly.

"All of your relationships bear links," Will says. "Abigail with me. And Miriam with Jack. And Mischa-," Will stops, staying clear of Chiyoh's name in case they're being videotaped. "You broke the link, Hannibal," he says. "You alone did that."

"A violent disconnection," Hannibal remarks.

"One I understand," Will remembers, picturing Chiyoh in front of him. Feeling her lips on his own. And then just pain.

"Force precedes language," Hannibal says. 

"Show instead of tell?" Will wonders. "Are we beyond language now, Dr. Lecter?" he asks. "Are we beyond conversations?"

"I fear conversation are all we have for now, Will," Hannibal says. "Unfortunately."

"Conversations and letters?" Will asks then. 

"Letters are conversations saved for another day," Hannibal tells him. "The dribbles of wet ink, our naked thoughts, as it dries under our heated breath, our furrowed brows. And then we eagerly anticipate the long-awaited reply. The pleasure of a prolonged response. Have you ever used your passion to write a letter, Will?" Hannibal asks. 

"Only to burn them," Will admits. 

"Then you don't know the pleasure of translating inner turmoil into cursive array," Hannibal says. 

"Calligraphy as therapy?" Will asks. 

"Occupies the hand as much as the mind," Hannibal just says. 

"Tease and denial," Will counters. 

"Until the response arrives." There's a familiar smile playing around Hannibal's lips that makes him look younger than Will has ever seen him.

"If," Will corrects him. "If it arrives."

"La patience est amère, mais son fruit est doux," Hannibal quotes in flawless French. 

"Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet," Will translates his words, much more hesitant. As if English suddenly became just another foreign language. Hannibal rewards him with another proud smile. 

"Do you read John Dryden, Will?" Hannibal asks. " _Aureng-Zebe_? Some consider it his greatest work."

"I'm sure it's exhilarating," Will says. 

"A tragedy," Hannibal corrects him. "You may recognize parts of yourself in some of the characters. Arimant in particular comes to mind."

"I have trouble recognizing parts of myself in my own character," Will just says. 

"He's by far the most reliable narrator," Hannibal tells him. "Unless overcome with his passion. And his love for Indamora who he claims has bewitched the stars to make him obedient towards her wishes."

"Sounds generic enough," Will says, but looks away. A tickle of curiosity but he doesn't want Hannibal knowing where to scratch. 

" ' _Twill only give me pains of writing twice_ ," Hannibal quotes, and seems to dwell in memory for a moment before he goes on. "Indamora upon Arimant's declaration to tear her _billet doux_ ," he retells. "Her love letter."

"As tragedies go, my guess is they weren't granted to live happily ever after," Will suspects. 

"It's more complicated than that," Hannibal says. 

"More complicated than a spell upon the stars?" Will asks. 

"A more delicate constellation," Hannibal admits. "A love triangle if you will," he adds. "Arimant's love for Indamora is rather unrequited. While Indamora's love for Aurengzebe cannot be returned for he is enamored with Arimant."

"I don't suppose you see parts of yourself in these characters?" Will asks, eyebrows raised daringly. "Or do you?"

"Love is a terrible affair, Will," Hannibal says. "Despite all the knowledge I possess -- of the human brain and the psychological concept of self it produces -- I couldn't define it any better than a feverish dream," he takes a step towards Will who resists the gravitational-like pull to mirror him. "A spell upon the stars indeed."

"The stars you believe to be the same?" Will asks with numb ears, unsure whether he even spoke loud enough for Hannibal to hear.

"Do you still have to wonder, Will?" Hannibal asks. "Do you still have to look at the night sky and ask yourself what I see?"

"Someone told me," Will starts, recollection still fresh, "that the night is not just another period of time. But another place. Different from where we are during the day."

"It's a shame we cannot meet there, Will," Hannibal says. "Not for now."

"Do you write your letters at night, Dr. Lecter?" Will asks.

Hannibal considers him for a moment, seeking the answer in Will's face rather than his memory. "When all ink is black?" he asks then.

And Will nods. "It's when I read them. When I burn them," he says. "When I feed the flames."

Hannibal draws a deep breath, before he tilts his head. A slight flicker in his own eyes. "Tease and denial," he says. "Fiery passion in the solace of the dark," -- a smile then --, "With Orion watching from above."

"And Jupiter right by its side," Will adds when their eyes meet.

"I'll gladly gift you my pains of writing twice then, Will." 

* * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay but I had a date with Bryan in London where I had to ask him about Miriam (and make sure she's better off in this fic) and apparently I also had to do hours of research on a random play from 1675. But hey at last we arrived here.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Every time Will takes the road that leads to Muskrat Farm it appears a couple miles longer than before. The secluded location always moving further from the world. Hiding in shame until it comes into eyesight. Then it rises in pride again. Beautifully manicured and so aesthetically accurate it's intimidatingly grotesque. Out of the four times Will had been there, he'd came twice for murder. And once to _be_ murdered. Only the last visit had the premise of healing. Or stitching up some long gashing wounds. Now, he feels ready to pick the needle back up again. 

"Will," Alana greets him in genuine surprise. "I had no idea you were coming."

"I was just in the neighborhood," Wills says, opening his shoulder towards the countryside around them. He doesn't even have to force the smile that follows. He's feels better seeing her. Feels better being here. Although her voice can't drown out Hannibal's completely, upon hearing her it retreats to the back of Will's head. Staying with him still --echoing his words over and over again-- but getting comfortable in the quiet of the dark. Will lifts his arm to show Alana the bottle of whiskey he picked up on the way. She smiles back at him. A smile of a past life.

"Margot will be delighted," she says and takes a step back. "Come on in."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Will says, following Alana through the hallway. He keeps his eyes on the art pieces along the walls and the high ceiling as to not being forced to watch the faltering way Alana moves now. As to not being forced to remember the way he found her. Bedded on concrete, comforted only by the rain. 

"Not at all," Alana says politely. Will can't tell if she's lying. Not without seeing her face. 

"How's the baby?" Will asks. 

"Good," she informs him. "Sleeping," she says. "You'll see."

Will is about to ask what she means when they turn into one of the generous living rooms where Margot sits in an old armchair holding their sleeping son in a bundle of blankets. 

"Wow," Will says, feeling his expression fall. Because in between the blood and the violence and the loss that constitutes his life, he's not used to-- 

\-- this. 

Innocence. Warmth. Familial peace. 

"I'd return the favor, but you don't look too good, Will," Margot says with a smirk. "You're getting old."

"We're all getting old, Margot," Alana says and guides Will closer to the sleeping baby with a careful hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here to meet him," she says and while Will think she  _must_  be talking to him _,_  there's a bit of unbelievable doubt left with the way she keeps her eyes on her sleeping son. That maybe Will is someone worth meeting.

"He's so big," Will says, moving so stiffly it almost hurts his spine.

"Almost six months now," Margot says, kissing the baby's head. Will glances to Alana, but she's oblivious to his gaze, focused entirely on her wife and child. 

"Alana was right," Will says then. "He's as beautiful as you," he tells Margot. "As the both of you," he adds honestly. 

"Out of the bag of sperm we seemed to have luckily picked the one with the least distinctive Mason-features," Margot jokes. Alana smiles amused behind her, leaning over the backrest to softly stroke her son's cheek. Somehow Will feels colder at the mention of Mason's name.

"His features would be the least of my worries,” Will says absently, thinking about the abject horrors and distinct features his own genes carry.

“The capability for violence is in all of us, Will,” Alana reminds him. “So is the capability for kindness.”

“We’re only evidence of the former,” Will remarks.

“That’s not true,” Alana says, not because she’s offended. But because she needs to believe her own words. Just as much as Will.

“I’m going to take him upstairs,” Margot says, cradling their son a little closer before getting up. “With these cheerful topics I worry about our own influence more than Mason’s genetics.”

“Are you coming back down?” Alana asks, and Will wonders if she dreads being alone with him.

“Of course,” Margot tells her. “Wouldn’t miss this self-loathing for the world.” She smiles at them. “Nor having some of this whiskey,” she adds.

“How are you feeling, Will?” Alana asks. A few moments of silence have passed since Margot had left the room. “You saw him again, didn’t you?”

“I thought neither you nor Jack make decisions regarding Hannibal on their own,” Will remembers.

“We don’t,” Alana says.

“Then you already know,” Will tells her.

“We agreed that while we don’t think it’ll further the investigation, keeping you from him was taking up too many resources. Mostly our own nerves,” she adds with a cheeky smile. Another reminder of who she used to be. “I wasn’t sure how fast you’ll take us up on the offer. I wasn't sure if Miriam would agree to another visit.” Will averts his eyes. 

“Doesn’t Hannibal tell you,” he says then, a bit of annoyance creeping up his legs, settling in his knees for the moment. Forcing Will to shake them out. “To lighten up your daily visits.”

“Is this how you imagine our encounters now? Gossip and good wine?” Alana asks.

“It’s how I always imagined your encounters,” Will says. “With only a silky sheet between you. As opposed to that bulletproof wall of glass.” His words were meant to sting but Alana just laughs them off. It irritates Will. When he aims, he hardly ever misses a soft spot.

“Are you trying to get to me, Will?” she asks, reading him with dead-aim accuracy. Will thinks of all the times he was only safe from her assessment because she refused to take a closer look for the sake of their friendship. “You’re only getting to yourself,” she adds. He should either learn how to put on a better facade or start working on rebuilding their relationship. He misses her courtesy of looking the other way. “I just don’t understand why?” she goes on, taking a more focused look at him. “Maybe you didn’t know before? Who would react? Out of the two of us? You? Or me? Do you still wonder?”

On the choice of her words Hannibal’s voice moves in the back of his mind like a ghost rattling on its chain. And all of the sudden great snakes wrestling and heaving in the dark make a lot more sense to Will.

“We don’t talk much about you, Will,” she tries to assure him. “Hannibal and I. He doesn’t want to and I prefer his silence.”

“I used to see him almost every day,” Will says. “I forgot what it feels like. I wasn’t prepared to be remembered,” he admits.

“What does it feel like?” Alana asks.

“It’s like wading through thick mud up to your chest,” Will says, frustration and anger rushing in his lungs. “But as I step out,” he goes on --almost breathless--, “when my feet walk free, I miss the resistance. The tiring weight around my ankles. The soothing way that forced me to move so slow. Almost calming. The pressure on my body. Defined edges. Finally a form. Whereas here, I feel like I might dissipate. Disperse. And then? Gone with the wind.”

“It’s often easier to define ourselves by who we are not. As opposed to who we are,” Alana tells him. “You feel more like yourself wading through photographic negatives of you. Images of who you could be. Of who Hannibal wants you to be. But in the face of opposition it can be hard not to be compromised. You might end up dissolving all the same.”

“Who do you want me to be?” he asks.

“I want you to be happy, Will,” Alana tells him. “I wish Jack would have never come to you in the first place.”

“Do you think I was happier then?” Will wonders.

“Lighter,” she tells him.

“I was always happy when I was with you,” he admits as quietly as confessing to a crime.

“Will,” she starts, careful battling flattering and pity. “We barely had moments,” is what she says then.

“You made me feel like a better man, Alana,” Will tells her. “Funny how that was the opposite of what you wanted.”

“I doubt that what I wanted was the problem,” Alana says abandoning the entire fight for disappointment.

“I wanted to preserve some normality while we navigated through the madness Hannibal fostered all around me,” Will says.

“And dating is normality?” she asks. “Flirting? A kiss in the midst of madness?”

“Happiness is normality for some people,” Will argues. “Normality for you.”

“I never wanted you to be normal,” she tells him.

“And maybe that was our problem all along,” Will finishes.

“You’re angry at me, Will,” Alana says. “I don’t know what I did.”

“It’s what you didn’t do that left a bitter taste,” Will tells her.

“Believe you?” she asks. “Is that the only betrayal you can recall?”

“I haven’t betrayed you,” Will says.

“Not when you called him?” she argues. “When you found yourself between good and evil and couldn’t bring yourself to just pick a side?”

“You don’t regret what happened,” Will reminds her. “You ended up here. When it all shattered you pulled the longest match.”

“Are you saying I deserve less?” she asks.

“You’re as guilty as all of us,” Will just says.

“You want to see me suffer, Will?” Alana wonders. “Is that what you need to forgive me?” She waits for an answer, but Will only responds with silence. “You could have, you know?” she says angrily. “You could have watched me suffer through months and months of recovery. Through months and months of nightmares and the quest for revenge. Could have seen me suffer through childbirth, if you have wanted to. But you chose not to. Stop blaming other people for your choices, Will.”

“What about your choices?” he asks. “You watched  _him_ suffer. Watched him being tortured. You enjoyed the thought of it as it happened.”

“Weren’t you the one suggesting _he_ was thriving as it happened? Or so I heard,” she says. “Thriving as Mason dug himself that hole he was later buried in.”

“Buried by you. By Margot.” Will can’t let it slide.

“Who do you pity, Will?” Alana asks. “Mason for his death? Hannibal that he passed on sealing it? You?”

“Mason isn’t worth any pity,” Will says.

“That leaves Hannibal,” she counts. “And you.”

“Mason was Margot’s all along,” Will recalls Margot’s own words.

“You came for him once?” Alana reminds him.

“Mason is family,” Will says then. “It’s what Hannibal wanted. We’re all family by his bloodshed.”

“I wasn’t written in Hannibal’s play,” Alana says. “I happened.”

“He tolerates you,” Will says. “For the time being.”

“Like an ill-chosen boyfriend of his favorite girl?” she asks. “Who do you think he would prefer? You?”

“The only reason he lead Margot to me was because he had taken you from me,” Will says. “He felt pity for me.”

“Listen to yourself, Will,” Alana tells him. “We were never mere chess pieces for him to move around.”

“My agency doesn’t extend that of a pawn in a game between Jack and Hannibal,” Will admits. “I don’t even know whose hand is dragging me over the board right now.”

“You underestimate your agency,” Alana says. “You have moved pieces yourself. Removed them.”

“I long for past times, Alana,” Will confesses. “I long for the clocks to tick backwards.”

“Neither of us belongs in this reality, Will” she says gently. “Neither of us deserved this reality. We still have to live it. Even shape it in a way that’s acceptable.”

“I struggle to accept this as reality,” Will tells her. “None of this feels real.”

“It’s real,” she assures him.

“I can feel the pull itching to move the pieces back where they belong,” Will tells her.

“And where is that?” Alana asks.

“You mean when?” Will corrects her.

“We can’t go back, Will,” she reminds him again.

“There is no reality where Hannibal spends his life in a cell,” Will says. “No reality where dust and decay move into his practice in Baltimore. There is no reality where Bedelia gets to cut her strings. No reality where Miriam can face him and walk out a winner.”

“No reality in which I live?” she suggests.

“No reality in which Jack lives,” Will corrects her.

“He and I both died in Hannibal’s kitchen,” she says. “That is as far as Hannibal is concerned.”

“He might be persuaded to turn your clock back, Alana,” Will says.

“If you really believe that, you’re lying to yourself. You’re trying to see something in him he is not.”

“Forgiving?” Will asks.

“A man without integrity,” she says, and can’t help but reach for the bottle of whiskey over her own choice of words. She has the courtesy to pour a glass for Will too.

“You’re starting without me?” Margot asks, moving through the room as agile and elegant as a cat. And just as quiet. “Don’t be rude,” she says, setting the baby monitor down at the table.

“Desperate, to be honest,” Alana says, filling a third glass for her.

“Then it won’t take me three guesses to figure out your current topic,” Margot tells them with a smirk as she raises her glass. “Cheers.”

The soft burn of the whiskey warms Will’s chest and he settles back to let the feeling lull him in a little.

“How are your scars, Will,” Margot asks bluntly. “Heard you collected some more since you last showed them to me.”

“Very charming, Margot,” Will comments and glances at Alana who doesn’t seem to mind her question at all. She just runs a gentle hand down Margot’s back, undoubtedly feeling the remnants of Mason’s tyranny.

“Just making conversation,” she says and shrugs.

“A bit dark maybe?” Will offers.

“Can’t be much darker than what you two were talking about,” she says.

"I can't remember the last time I had a light conversation," Will admits. "Or felt capable of having one."

"Conversations were never your strong suit," Alana reminds him. "Either light or dark. Although, now that I think of it, the lighter ones were even more challenging to you." 

"Lighter conversations require the dismissal of emotions stomping through room," Will argues. "Darker conversations allow them to be addressed." 

"Why so sensitive then?" Margot asks.

"I don't appreciate my emotions to be the topic of conversation," Will tells her. 

"The hypocrisy," Margot just says. 

"I'm not above hypocrisy," he admits and flushes his words down with another gulp of his whiskey. 

"I'd like to see them," Margot tells him again. 

"Where does your fascination with scars come from, Margot?" Will wonders. 

"Isn't that obvious?" she asks back. "One of the few things Mason and I had in common." She pauses, eyes losing focus for a second. "Eventually," she adds and shrugs again. 

"As long as your fascination doesn't extend to creating them," Will says. 

"Too many people enjoy creating them," she tells him. "I'm content with appreciating what they stand for."

"Surviving?" Will asks, thinking about Miriam. 

"Suffering," Margot just says. "Isn't suffering what connects us."

"To some it's survival," Will argues and daring Alana to make eye contact with him. "To Jack it's survival," he says, leaving Alana's name unspoken. 

"Not to you," Margot says. 

"I don't care much for scars," Will tells her. 

"You don't," she says, "but he does."

"I don't care for his obsessions," Will argues. "And if I would, I had more to worry about than his tendency to lay meaning onto scars."

"Would you show him?" Margot asks, causing Alana to shift uncomfortably. "If he'd ask you to. Instead of me?"

"Would you?" Will asks back, eyebrows raised because the whiskey makes him bold.

She smirks as pretends to think about it with a hand on her chin. 

"Is this ninth grade and a tasteless game of truth or dare?" Alana asks then. 

"I always loved these games," Margot says. 

"Of course, you did," Will remarks dryly. 

"Unfortunately, Mason loved them too," she adds. 

"Mason would love this too," Will says. "Having us here. He would have the time of his life tormenting us with allusions to the full capacity of his cruelty."

"Good thing that the time of his life was up," Alana says, cold and detached. A sense of hatred washes over her to an extend Will hadn't been aware of before. 

"Can I ask you something, Will?" Margot interrupts Will's thoughts. "Your empathy," she starts, sipping on her drink. "I makes you see people more clearly, right?"

"That's one way to put it," Will says. 

"Was it harder to look at Mason? And see him?" she asks. "Or harder to look at Hannibal?"

Will takes a moment to consider her question. She's not hiding a secret agenda behind it. All Will gets is genuine curiosity. All too familiar to him.

"The horrors of Hannibal's design are neatly wrapped," Will says. "They're like a poisonous flower. Deadly only when you touch it. What Mason enjoyed was slaughter. Nightmares. And fear. Haunting and hunting you," he tells her. "Neither of them healthy to digest."

“I know what my pick would be,” she says before bringing the brim of her glass to her lips again.

“Hannibal has been good to you,” Will says, ignoring Alana who's frowning over his announcement. “He has spared you his marks.”

“So?” Margot asks.

“It’s easier for you to pretend he’s a wolf waiting to be tamed,” Will says. “Not us,” he adds, looking at Alana. “We had his teeth piercing through the skin. Trying to tear us into pieces."

“If you ever play with him, Will,” Margot starts, “if you’re going to show him yours, so he’ll show you his,” she goes on, enjoying every word as if she was tasting herself through a box of chocolates. Not Mason’s chocolates. “Think of me,” she says, sentiment as light as a feather. “Think of me when you come across the Verger family crest on his shoulder.”

 

* * * * *  
 

 

"You look well rested, Will," Hannibal says, standing far from Will across the room. And yet Will has no doubt he can see him with incomparable clarity. “Did you find answers to some of the question that have been keeping you up? Apologies even?” He takes a moment to consider Will again. “Or have you since abandoned your search altogether?” 

“I understand now,” Will starts, “that answers are not to be found where we expect them to hide. That they cannot be spoken by demand. Answers, some are to be found in our past, yet most of them in our future. The least amount of answers can be discovered in our present. And I have come to understood that the same applies to apologies.”

“They are bound by time not people,” Hannibal summarizes.

“More often than not, they’re out of our hands,” Will says.

“Like forgiveness,” Hannibal adds. “Friendship.”

“Love,” Will adds. Agrees. As if one words necessarily prompts the other.

Hannibal tilts his head. Curiosity.

“Where do you see those things, Will?” Hannibal asks. “For yourself? Friendship. Love. Forgiveness. In the past? The present? The future?”

“I see myself approaching the moment where past and future will touch,” Will says.

“We have talked about the difference between your past and your future before,” Hannibal reminds them. “Before me and after me,” he recalls. “How would that translate into the moment where your past and future meet?”

“Bending a linear graph around a fixed coordinate,” Will tells him, “would have it cross itself in a mirror point. Intersections of parallel tangents of the same circle.”

“That would be logic’s command,” Hannibal says. “ _Before_ and _after_ intersect.”

“They intersect alongside the present,” Will finishes.

“Not with me yet beside me?” Hannibal asks, amusement playing around his lips again.

“Logic’s command,” Will concludes.

“I am intrigued by your newly discovered perception of time, Will,” Hannibal admits. “I feel as if we apply almost similar concepts by now.”

“Almost,” Will emphasizes.

“As we approach this moment,” Hannibal wonders, “you must make your way either through past or future to reach your coordinates across from me. Have you chosen a path yet?”

“I know my futile attempts at surpassing you,” Will says. “My failed attempts of putting you behind me,” he clarifies. “I have surrendered to a future. But not surrendered to time.”

"You came here first on Bedelia's behalf," Hannibal recalls. "Then on Abigail's behalf. Tell me, Will," he pauses and moves a few steps closer. Finally. "Could this be the time you came for yourself?"

"What difference does it make?” Will asks. “My questions would be the same,” he says. “My hesitations,” he corrects himself.

“Consideration for other people’s needs blur the clarity of our conversations,” Hannibal tells him. “I am more interested in what you desire on your own behalf. What conflicts you seek to resolve by being here, Will. Where you envision we go from here. How we part this time.”

“You didn’t want us to part,” Will argues. “Isn't that why I'm here. You wanted me to know where you are,” he reminds him. “Why?” he asks after Hannibal remains silent.

“Do you find me less horrifying here, Will?” Hannibal asks in return. “Less threatening? Watching me through the looking glass.”

“No.” Will shakes his head. “More threatening,” he admits.

“Because I look back?” Hannibal asks.

“Because you don’t belong,” Will says. “You allow this,” he goes on. “But you won’t tolerate it.”

“Why are we here then?” Hannibal presses with a third question. “Why are you here, Will?”

“Fate and circumstances,” Will quotes him.

“And why am I here?” Another question.

“For me to hear and see,” Will tells him, walking his thoughts into a clearance. Hannibal looks at him. Satisfied. “I see and hear better when I’m afraid,” he says absently.

“Do I still scare you?” Hannibal asks. “Or do you scare yourself more?”

“Could  _you_  ever be afraid of me?” Will wonders instead.

“Fear is a refreshing emotion, Will,” Hannibal says. “Have you ever noticed that it’s indistinguishable from excitement. The physical reactions are the same. As are the chemicals released in our brains. You have caused me excitation, Will,” Hannibal says as casual as he gets. “Might as well have been fear.”

“Gets the blood pumping,” Will remarks.

“How’s Alana?” Hannibal asks.

“I hear she comes down every day for a goodnight,” Will tells him.

“Never missed one,” Hannibal declares almost happily.

“Six hours ‘til sunset,” Will says after a glance at his watch. “Why don’t you ask her yourself.”

“Alana and I refrain from pleasantries,” Hannibal tells him. “And personal feelings.”

“None left?” Will asks dismissively.

“Too many,” Hannibal says instead.

“The last time I referred to my personal feelings I was accused of jealousy,” Will tells him, resentment brushing his neck at the flashing image of Bedelia’s complacent posture behind her excessive desk.

“Any elucidations would be redundant then,” Hannibal says. “It’s good seeing you alone, Will” he goes on. “I was surprised to see you. And while I appreciate our time together, I can’t help feeling curious about the company you brought the first time you came.”

“Miriam?” Will asks.

“I wonder, if – for a moment-- you thought, what I was thinking,” Hannibal admits.

“Almost as if Abigail was alive,” Will says, because he doesn’t have to wonder.

“Your quest for apologies was prompted by her presence,” Hannibal says. “May I ask who prompted your encounter?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Will returns.

“I’m guessing it was Jack then,” Hannibal says.

“One could argue it was you,” Will just says. “Wasn’t that what you wanted? For him to force me back here. Force me to read the articles. Your billet doux?”

“Did he have to force you, Will?” Hannibal asks.

“Does the thought offend you?” Will asks back. “I thought force was just another mean of communication to you.”

“Primitive but effective,” Hannibal contemplates. “A universal language.”

“Not the one I prefer,” Will tells him.

“You’re almost fluent though, Will,” Hannibal says. “You have chosen force in many of our conversations. Many of our most sincere and most intimate conversations.”

“You have left me no choice,” Will argues.

“The contrary is true,” Hannibal tells him. “I have given you the opportunity to choose force. The freedom to do just that.”

"Then you've given Jack the same freedom," Will reminds him.

"I assume Jack believes you and Miriam will assist each other in overcoming a trauma," Hannibal says. 

"An obvious assumption," Will comments.

"Not obvious to me," Hannibal says. 

"You don't think I'm traumatized?" Will asks, taking a step forward.

"What you experience are mere growing pains," Hannibal informs him. 

"Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Lecter?" Will asks. "Sounds like wishful thinking to me."

"You're shocked at the world being presented to you," Hannibal tells him. "You don't know how to fill it just yet."

"Birth is traumatic," Will says, thinking about Miriam again. Almost shamefully as if she doesn't deserve to be dragged in here. Not even in thought. "Re-birth is."

"Have you ever witnessed a birth, Will?" Hannibal asks. 

"I don't think I have to remind you about the circumstances that prevented that," Will tells him, forcing Alana out of his mind. 

"Fatherhood," Hannibal prompts. "Families. It's all on your mind, Will. I can tell," he goes on. "Yet you could never allow yourself to admit it."

"I was a father" Will says then, surprised by his own voice. By the question that has been lingering in the dark edges of his mind. "Just because it's gone, doesn't mean it was never there," he recalls Margot's words. "I had a family."

"You have been surrounded by family long before Margot crossed your path, Will," Hannibal says. "Margot, your child... You had a family in me and Abigail," he reminds him. "A family that understood you."

"As opposed to Jack? Alana?" Will asks.

"And then you rejected your family," Hannibal tells him.

"You took from me what I considered family," Will says. "Or let me believe she was taken from me. Let me believe that I had taken her from us."

"I merely protected her from the inevitable rejection prompted by your morality," Hannibal argues. "You weren't ready to love her like I was."

"Cause and effect, Dr. Lecter," Will spins. "Irrelevant once time reverses. You’re no more a saint than I am a sinner."

"Trauma isn’t the only thing you and Miss Lass have in common,” Hannibal says then.

“All of the sudden?” Will asks, trying to navigate through the storm of his own emotions in order to follow Hannibal’s trail of thoughts.

“You both have been accompanied by the same whiff of betrayal,” Hannibal says. “Keep that in mind, Will.”

“And you?” Will asks angrily. “Are you above betrayal?”

“Temporary re-arrangements,” Hannibal just says.

“Relationships aren’t rubber bands, Hannibal,” Will says, feeling oddly vulnerable calling out for him like this. By his name. For him to hear. “They don’t snap back into place.”

 

* * * * *

 

"I assume you came back here to give voice to further accusations," Bedelia says, gesturing towards the empty chair opposite of her. "To explain to me all the ways in which I haven't acted correctly according to your moral code," she adds. 

"I don't have to," Will just says. "I'm sure you're aware."

"Is this a personal visit or a matter of the FBI?" she asks. 

"Personal," he admits. 

"Are you seeking counsel?" Her face is closed off to Will, oddly distant despite their proximity. But he didn't come here to read her distortions of reality anyway. 

"Advice?" Will considers. "Since you so often agree with Hannibal's therapeutic methods, I feel we're entering dangerous territory."

"For you?" she wonders. "Or for me?"

"Who do you consider more vulnerable?" Will asks. "Me?" he adds, mocking her tone. "Or you?"

"Considering you have tried to shoot Hannibal twice while under his care," she starts and Will scoffs. She ignores him. "Considering I have been attacked before," she says. "By a patient not unlike you-"

"You don't have to play the victim here, Bedelia," Will tells her. "Not with me."

"And what is the role you chose for yourself?" she asks. "Detective? Or fugitive?"

"You ran away with him," Will says. "Not me."

"Yet, it was supposed to be you," she reminds him. "The preparations were made. You witnessed them."

"I saw him dismantling who he was," Will recalls absently, burning papers flashing before his eyes and Hannibal right behind him. He shudders. "You bore witness to who he became."

"Only who he became after you left him," Bedelia says. 

"Have we started therapy yet?" Will asks, pulling himself away from the memories. 

"That depends if you are in need of doctor-patient-confidentiality," she tells him. 

"What about new secrets between old friends," Will asks. 

"I don't think I have to remind you of the fact that we do not share a friendly bond," she says. 

"Do we choose our friends, Bedelia?" Will asks. 

"There is a common belief that friends are not to be made but recognized," she says. "Is that what you believe?"

"I believe some friendships are forged by coincidence and circumstance," Will tells her. "And some are forced by necessity."

"And which ones do you perceive the strongest?" she wonders. 

"The ones that can spare trust in their foundation," Will says. "I trusted you once," he tells her. "To believe me."

"A trust I never forfeited," she says. "Yet you believe me to have mislead you."

"You and I never had the necessity for friendship," Will admits. "You and Hannibal though," he starts, "your relationship exceeded convenience."

"We were curious of each other," she says, clinically detached despite the insinuations. The associations her words breed. 

"Curiosity is one of Hannibal's strongest drives," Will remarks.

"And recognition the other," Bedelia reminds him. 

"I have friendships of necessity," Will says then. "And of circumstance."

"We often find ourselves caught in the concepts of relationships we create in our head," she says. "Like characters they come to life as we plot out their story. As we assign meaning to them."

"I have difficulties with allocating meaning," Will admits. "I have difficulties calculating their chances."

"I would not advice a client to bet all their money on one horse," she says. "One relationship." 

"And yet that was exactly what you did," Will recalls. 

"A necessity," she argues. 

"A choice," Will interjects. 

"Do you feel compelled to make a choice, Will?" she asks.

"I have been kneading my thoughts of choice for so long," Will says, "what's left of them is too ugly to look at."

"You gave lectures once," Bedelia starts. "You are as well versed in the field of psychology as Agent Crawford. As Dr. Bloom. As your colleague Miriam Lass. And yet you reject most of the scientific approaches. Such as common therapy."

"I believe in a broken world, not a broken mind," Will tells her. "There is no therapy for the child humankind has created."

"Your world may be a cruel place," Bedelia says. "Even worse than the nightmares your mind creates."

"It attracts nightmares," Will corrects. 

"The most beautiful places on earth, Will, are often those that defy life," she tells him. 

"And home to the deadliest creatures," Will adds. 

"Home nonetheless," she says. "Does home have meaning for you?"

"Not in the way it has meaning to Hannibal," Will tells her. "I can't go back and understand who I've become."

"No," Bedelia agrees. "You're understanding of yourself lies entirely in your future."

"I am moving through a tunnel," Will tells her. "Unable to find any reference in my surrounding to estimate the pace. I am nothing but a passenger on a blind ride." He pauses. She leaves him to his own thoughts. "I am getting used to the dark," Will says then. "And the sensation of acceleration."

"You have given up on trying to understand yourself," Bedelia says. "You have given up choice. On trust. What I see, Will, would be entirely concerning to any ordinary psychotherapist."

"You don't seem concerned," Will says. There's tension in her shoulders, but not her brows, her fingers, nor her ankles. 

"While I can sense your confusion," she tells him, "your irritation over your dismissal of seemingly integral elements of social convention, I am not aware of any distress it causes you."

"My irritation causes me distress," Will argues. 

"Your irritation causes disorientation," Bedelia says. "It's why you are here."

"Why am I here?" he asks.

"You are trying to gain a sense of stability by recreating a familiar situation," she tells him. "You are mistaken though, if you equate companionship with like-mindedness." She looks at him with a glimpse of fondness between careful and graceful expressions of impersonal interest. "As you have correctly stated, necessity is a far stronger bond than similarities in character."

"I don't mistake your attendance for engagement," Will says. "I am not interested in watching you trying to walk in his shoes."

"No," she says. "You already put them on." For a short moment, they look at each other, respective smiles so immediate, they shimmer through the panes of the present as they linger in the anticipation of the future. And then the moment vanishes unfulfilled. "How do they fit?"

"You are bland to me, Bedelia," Will says. "I have no curiosity about you."

"You have curiosity about Hannibal's relationship with me," she says if it was boringly obvious. It probably is to her. 

"What means of influence did he use on you?" Will asks. "If not violence. If not charm."

"Before I retired," Bedelia says after a second of hesitation. "Before I was attacked, Hannibal and I would spend hours discussing the psychological reveals in art and literature," she says. "We would argue over appropriate interpretations and promising psychiatric methods. Therapy for famous characters and their portrayal in paintings."

"A stimulating activity," Will says, tone unimpressed.

"I don't think it would surprise you," she assumes, "to hear that Hannibal was more forgiving of their flaws and more committed to their change than I have been."

"Why wouldn't it?" Will asks. 

"Hannibal and I share a taste for the exceptional," she admits. "And we share admiration for excellence. Where we do not agree is whether the outstanding exists by accident or whether it is the result of progression."

"Talent versus practice," Will summarizes.

"I do not waste time with panning gold," Bedelia says. "I prefer the oyster on my tongue and its pearl around my neck." A twitch in her shoulder. Her posture too elegant for a shrug. "Hannibal roots for the villains. And the underdogs. My freedom not to root at all is what fascinates him." A pause as Will takes it in. Too short for him to interject. "It's the same freedom that angers you. Fills you with contempt."

"If everyone was like you, Bedelia," Will says. "Compassion would be confined to tales and myths," he tells her annoyed. "Why are you fascinated with him?"

"I am not easily persuaded to give my time," Bedelia says. "I have seen in Hannibal not a product of alteration but chance. I may have been wrong."

"So he's not as exceptional as you?" Will asks. 

"Change through external influence is a sign of malleability," she tells him. "I prefer stability."

"Isn't that what I supposedly came here for?" Will asks. "Stability."

"That is why I suggest you consider giving up on stability too," she says. "As I am not who you are looking for."

 

* * * * *

 

“Mason," Will starts. By now, he's sitting on the floor with his back against the glass, resting the back of his head against the transparent wall separating them. Eyes closed as his imagination takes them back to Hannibal’s estate, just a couple of blocks away. Where Hannibal would sit across from him. Not next him, back against his side of the high security barrier. He’s got his face turned to Will. Close enough to whisper into his ear. If it wasn’t for the unbreakable screen separating them. "He left his mark on you," Will says, tone unintentionally careful. "The Verger crest."

“I can still smell the embers," Hannibal tells him. His voice is low but somehow it fills the entire room. "And the flesh."

"You left your mark on me," Will adds to his thoughts, opening his eyes as he lets his head roll to the side to face Hannibal. "I can still smell the blood."

"Blood runs hot through your veins, Will," Hannibal says. "Ardently and fervently. Liquid fire pouring out of you as I cut you open."

"Did it burn you?" Will asks. He feels the violence of Hannibal's words. Understands it.

"More than Mason's iron did."

 

* * * * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

Silence hangs between Hannibal and Will like heavy curtains. Unspoken words swaying with the melody of past conversations, brushing the tips of Will's fingers where he's got them splayed on the floor. Almost touching the glass separating them. Almost reaching for the small of Hannibal's back. Almost. 

Will struggles to ground himself, slipping between past and present, the room embedding itself in his mind palace. Maybe a shared room, Will wonders, but he can't quite imagine Hannibal allowing a place to be integrated that he needs to mentally escape from. It's a better alternative -- no room at all -- than a room he could never return to. Would never want to return to.

"I hear music too," Will says absently, not sure if Hannibal can hear. If he's present the way Will is. Darting between memory and reality. Imagination and substantiality. Almost slipping. Almost. "When the dogs are out," he goes on. "When there's nothing left, not even old thoughts that carry the stench of dried blood, I hear music."

"A piece I would know?" Hannibal asks. 

"Winter daydreams," Will tells him. He looked it up. Though he cannot say where he heard it first. Where it caught his attention. Became meaningful enough to be stuck in his head. Baltimore, he assumes.

"Tchaikovsky," Hannibal remarks. "An early, immature work. Yet very dear to his heart. He defended it against all criticism and dedicated it to his friend Nikolai Rubinstein. The first one to perform it. I believe Tchaikovsky wrote it while he was living in Nikolai's house."

"I heard that he suffered from psychosis," Will says. "Tchaikovsky," he clarifies. "Ironically, listening to music worsened his condition."

"Tchaikovsky and his mental illness are only a long-lasting myth," Hannibal corrects. "Persistent. And very ugly. As it is said to have its origin in a moral panic that rose after Oscar Wilde's trial. An attempt to equate homosexuality with a questionable mental state. With madness to be blunt. And Tchaikovsky fell victim to such defamation."

Will takes a moment to take it in, lets the first notes of the symphony whirring through his head, when suddenly, two things happen at once. 

The door leading into the visitor's area of Hannibal's cell swings open as Jack's voice forces its way into Will's ears. Tearing down the curtain of quiet comfort. 

"I have no recollection of authorizing this," Jack barks as he barges in. Will can feel the moment of irritation on Jack's side, as he was expecting to face Will right away. Not expecting to search for him and finding him sitting on eye level with his knees. "Oh, get up," he says annoyed. "Now!"

A shadow behind Jack in the corner of Will's eye as he pushes himself up from the ground. Miriam, Will thinks, but then the clicks of a walking stick between two high heels reach his ears, following Alana's left foot like the echo drum of a heartbeat. 

"Hello Jack," Hannibal says, standing firmly on his feet again as if transformational stages between positions just don't exist for him. He just slots into place. "If it wasn't for the unnecessary interruption, I would be quite happy to welcome you here."

"Necessity is my jurisdiction," Jack just says. 

"And the welcoming of guests here is mine," Alana adds from the back of the room, keeping her distance to the scenery that's building alongside the glass. 

Hannibal smiles and Will feels his mirroring effect tugging on the corners of his own mouth. 

"The four of us haven't had the honor in so long," Hannibal says. "Not together. The composition of our presence and thoughts have always made for a thrilling mixture. I'm inclined to feel grateful for experiencing another one of these moments. If not for the moment this one interfered with." He meets Will's eyes who only now realizes that he had been looking at Hannibal. 

"I can't say I'm grateful," Jack announces. "Disappointed might be a more accurate description," he adds and turns to Will himself. "You really thought this would go unnoticed?"

"I was promised discretion," Will just says, anger within reach but little substance. Did he really think this would go unnoticed?

"Don't you dare blame the people you dragged into this," Jack tells him. "You are working for the FBI. You are not entitled to discretion. Not when it involves the Chesapeake Ripper."

Will scoffs at Jack's attempt at emotional detachment while Hannibal clicks his tongue. 

"You haven't called me that in a while Jack," Hannibal remarks. "Considering the personal experiences we shared, I think you can refrain from impersonal aliases that were meant to dehumanize me."

"You were still the Ripper when you took Miriam Lass," Jack says angrily. "When you dehumanized her."

"You sent her right to me, Jack," Hannibal reminds him, quite calmly and unimpressed. "A little moth caught in my palm. Quite annoying if released. Battering the lampshade with determination. Too innocent to squash though. I can assure you, Jack, I have always treated her better than you did as her superior." A moment to consider his old friend more intensely, but not long enough for Jack to comprehend what is happening. "Her mentor," Hannibal digs deeper. "Her confident. I would assume Miriam's disappointment has been with you. Whereas I might have positively surprised her."

"Jack," Alana says gently, trying to interrupt the provocation. 

"Do you think I'm stupid, Dr. Lecter?" Jack asks, taking a step towards the glass --hand in mid-air at his side--, casting a bridge to Alana. He's heard her. He appreciates the sentiment. He's got this. A couple of messages in a single gesture. Will wonders about the last time communication had been this easy for him. When comprehension was so effortlessly achieved. "Do you think I became head of the Behavioral Unit by accident? I'm tired of this game," he tells him, and then turns for a second to face Will. "I am done being guilt tripped for the purpose of emotional manipulation. By either of you," he says and the reference to Will's past faults makes Hannibal tilt his chin in amusement. "Miriam Lass and I have one agreement," Jack goes on. "What happened, that's between her and me alone. Every questions I have left about her disappointment, I'll discuss with her directly. I don't need your assessment for that, Doctor," he adds. 

"She's holding onto the version of you she remembered in her time of distress," Hannibal tells him. "The guru, if I recall correctly," he adds with a smug expression.

"A peculiar cleverness," Will remarks unasked. 

"Peculiar indeed," Hannibal says. "Did you know that I offered your survival once, Jack?" he asks then. It takes Will only a second to catch on, but it's already too late as Hannibal's voice fills the room again. "It was Will who declined. At the time, he was convinced you craved clarity more than vitality. Of course, I cannot estimate the amount of truth behind his words. If there was any, I'm sensing your priorities have changed since then."

"And in return for my survival?" Jack asks. "What was the deal the devil offered."

"Another life," Hannibal says. He's not looking at Will, doesn't have to, because Will knows exactly when Hannibal's words are aimed for his ears. He's learned by now. Fluent in more than one of Hannibal's languages. 

"I'd still prefer clarity, Hannibal," Jack says, pronouncing his name with stretching aggression. "Under all the conditions you ever offered, or will ever have to offer, I prefer clarity over a life in blissful deception."

"Your emotions are right there under the surface, Jack," Hannibal says. "I can see them lurking. Distorted by refraction. But every now and then they break through between your words, gasping and panting. I don't remember them being so vigorous. Not when you were fighting me for your life. Not when you arrested me. Not even when you tried to kill me. You retrieved the vibrancy you once tied to my survival. Or rather, tied to my death. Do you feel alive again, Jack?" he asks. "Have you lived the life now? The one you are willing to sacrifice?"

"I don't think it would make a difference to you," Jack tells him. 

"Not to me," Hannibal admits. "But to Bella." Will can see Jack's shoulders tense. He can almost hear the heartbeat he misses upon the mention of her name. "I remember her asking me if I would save you for her. I remember considering it. What I don't seem to remember is when she laid that matter upon me." He frowns, pretending to think for a moment. "I think, it was right before Will asked me not to," he says, answering his own question and letting the weight of it hang above Jack's head. 

"Why wake the dead, Hannibal?" Alana asks, her voice soft as a breeze but just as cleansing. Will can sense her compassion though. The sting of tears. Sympathy and empathy. Consolatory -- warm and sweet-- if they come together. Not often enough for Will. 

"Some of them walk among us," Hannibal says. 

"We can talk about me joining the dead some other time," Alana says. "There will be many days for us to have that conversation. As many days as you have left."

"I look forward to that conversation, Alana," Hannibal tells her. "As it is long overdue."

"A lot of people in this room have lived past their clocks," Jack says, stern but calm. He's collected his stance and heart from where Hannibal had scattered it across the room. "If not all of them," he adds with an almost sad certainty. 

"A bunch of ghosts threatening each other with death" Will interjects, giving voice to the surreality of their conversation. 

"Shut up, Will," Jack tells him. "I don't want to hear another word if it isn't an explanation for the scene I just had to walk in on. A _good_ explanation," he adds, stretching the 'o' bizarrely. 

"A _need_ came up, Jack," Will tells him. 

"Not good enough," Jack just says. 

"Did you really think bringing Miriam here was a good idea?" Will asks. 

"A better idea than bringing you here," Jack remarks. 

"She's a distraction," Will tells him. 

"You are distracted on your own," Jack says. "If fact, you have been nothing _but_ distracted."

"What did you think I was going to do?" Will asks annoyed. "Play detective with you?"

"If you are investigating me, Jack," Hannibal interrupts, "have you considered interviewing me yourself?"

"Not once, Dr. Lecter," Jack says, and although Hannibal doesn't react, Will can sense that it stings like a paper cut.

"Your confidence in Will's abilities is admiring," Hannibal says. 

"If I had any confidence," Jack tells him, "I wouldn't have explicitly forbid Will from coming here alone only to be shamelessly undermined yet again."

"You have once seen in Will the vulnerability and the oddness of a squid," Hannibal muses, addressing Jack, but Will finds it hard not to be insulted by the comparison. "As many scientists before you, you have underestimated his intelligence." 

"A cunning boy?" Jack asks, mocking Hannibal's tone. 

"An intuitive man," Hannibal corrects him. "With an intellect to match his agenda."

"And what would that be?" Jack asks, looking back and forth between Hannibal and Will. 

"Emotional security," Hannibal says, catching Will off guard with the accuracy of his words. 

"And you think you can provide that?" Jack asks, not believing in the slightest possibility for that to be true. "Stability?" 

"Stability is only an illusion of the mind," Hannibal says. "A word we invented for gradual change."

"You're more known to provide violent change," Jack reminds him. 

"Will may think that what he's looking for now is stability," Hannibal says. "But neither he nor we can be sure of it." Jack throws Will another look, expecting him to add an opinion. An objection. But Will has abandoned stability since then. Just like Bedelia advised him to. Like Alana advised him to. When Jack's left with disappointment, he turns to Hannibal again, who moves on relentlessly. "Security and stability are often thought to belong together," he adds. "But more often than not, stability causes danger and vulnerabilities. Routines. And Habits. You should know about the peril skulking behind them, Jack. Change keeps us young. And our enemies on their toes."

"A moving target," Will remarks.

"So the change you foster furthers emotional security?" Jack clarifies. 

"Radical alteration is painful. Far more painful than a gradual shift. It carries honesty though. Provides clarity in its barest form. About our own emotions and motives. The ones of others," Hannibal says. "Does Will have to wonder about my motives? The way he wonders about yours?"

"Do I?" Will interjects then. 

"Do you?" Jack asks him directly.

"I wonder about your intentions," Will admits to Hannibal. "I can see your motives." 

"As clearly as if they were your own," Hannibal says, borrowing from his own words. 

"I don't feel safe," Will argues. 

"Secure, then?" Hannibal asks, but he knows the answer already. "Confident? And certain?"

"Certain only of death," Will tells him. 

"Is that his agenda you were referring to?" Jack asks Hannibal. "Death? An agenda to match your own." 

"What are you accusing me of, Jack?" Will wonders. 

"No one is accusing you of anything," Alana jumps in, soothing the tension once more. 

"As I have said before," Hannibal starts again, "my agenda is irrelevant. Will's quest for emotional security will take him on his own path. You and me, Jack, we're left to watch him go."

"I've seen now where it takes him, Dr. Lecter," Jack says. "And I am not happy about the path he chose."

"You lied to us, Will," Alana interjects, keeping Jack from going off completely. "Again."

"You cannot ask me to return and expect me not to be affected by it," Will tells her. "You cannot make use of my emotions and expect me to turn them off when they become inconvenient."

"Not inconvenient for us," she argues. "You're putting yourself in danger by coming here, Will. We want to protect you." 

"Protection is an illusion," Will says. "We're past protection. We all failed at protecting the ones we claimed to look after. Whatever can happen, will happen. In this life or another."

"You may think that true," Alana tells him. "But I refuse to believe it."

"As do I," Jack remarks. Their determination is reaching out for the other, creating a tight grid between them. Caging Will in between their disbelief. 

"This conversation shouldn't have happened," Will tells them. "Not here."

"The conversation I walked in on shouldn't have happened," Jack counters. "Are you out of your mind, Will? Do I have to worry about you again?"

"I remember your concern being mostly about your own reputation," Hannibal says then. 

"And your concern has been with your ego," Jack counters. 

"With my freedom," Hannibal corrects him. "As you can see, I've moved past that concern. Have you moved past yours?" he asks. "Alana has moved past her concerns." He doesn't wink, but Will thinks that if he wasn't Hannibal Lecter, he would have. The thought makes Will pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I gladly provide you with a more recent concern, Doctor," Jack offers. "Something to worry about." He turns to Will, Hannibal's eyes following Jack. Curious. "While you have been busy catching up with Dr. Lecter," Jack tells Will, "Miriam has actually been doing what I asked you to do." Ironically, Will draws a blank. It doesn't go unnoticed. "She found her, Will," Jack says and then turns back to Hannibal. "Chiyoh?" he asks. "Ring a bell?"

As a wave of panic washes over Will, Hannibal just smiles. Unconcerned. And he and Jack stare each other down in silence. 

"It's our turn to raise the dead, Hannibal," Alana says, tone so cold and sharp, Will barely recognizes her. "I've heard your sister has quite a story to tell."

 

* * * * *

 

"What's going on, Jack?" Will asks, following him and Alana down the corridor leading towards her office. "What do you mean you found her?" 

"Miriam followed the trail into his past. France, to be precise. Paris. After we found Ms. Murasaki, we were able to get some more details on our assassin," Jack explains. "She never left the States after freeing Hannibal from Muskrat Farm." Will can't stop himself from glancing towards Alana, thinking about the countless days she kept her secret. He wonders if she shares his panic. If she does, she's become excellent at hiding it. "We're bringing her in for questioning as we speak," Jack adds, pride radiating of him and messing with Will's agitation. 

"She saved your life, Jack," Will reminds him. "Do you think you're doing yourself a favor? Or any of us? Who knows who she's going to aim at next time." They push through the door and Will's preoccupied with avoiding Jack's eyes -- and Alana's all the same -- it takes him a good few seconds before he realizes that they aren't alone. "You shouldn't be here," he says then. 

"I was in the area," Margot mocks. "You seem tense," she says to Alana. Will's tempted to roll his eyes although he cannot place the sentiment. Apart from the sensation of his own tensing shoulders. 

"This whole place is tense," Alana just says. Her face gives nothing away, and yet it itches Will to throw Margot a look. A subtle warning that Mason has quite a story to tell as well.

"Time for us to pack the bags?" Margot asks, nervousness drizzling past her fake ease. 

"We were looking for an advantage," Jack says to Will. "This is it. I'm not letting it slide."

"Jury's still out," Alana tells Margot with a gentle smile. 

"No one is packing their bags," Jack says. "We're about to dehorn the devil."

"We're fishermen, Jack," Will tells him. "Not our repertoire." 

"Cattle's in my repertoire," Margot remarks. "Verger rite of passage," she adds, her thoughts getting lost in the past once more. And somehow Will finds himself understanding why Mason was Margot's rite of passage. 

"We're poking a cornered tiger, Jack," Alana says. "Are you sure he's not going to lash out?"

"He's under your care, Dr. Bloom," Jack reminds her. Before Will has a chance to wonder about whether it was friendly teasing, Jack picks up his own thread. "You have my trust, Alana," he says. It leaves Will feeling nothing, but he can sense Alana's affection taking root. "Now I ask you to trust me."

 

* * * * *

 

"Agent Crawford," Freddie coos the second Jack and Will exit BSHCI. "It's good to see you supervising Mr. Graham's visits. We all know he tends to mix work with pleasure."

"Miss Lounds," Jack says, more tame than usual. "Unfortunately, I don't have time for an interview."

"Pity," Freddie tells him with fake disappointment. "Lucky for me, the story is writing itself. I'm only here for a little touch up. Are you preparing for an arrest, Agent Crawford?" she asks. "Is Will going to join you in the front or will he be taking the back of your car?"

"Do you see any cuffs, Freddie?" Will asks back, opening his hands to show her his bare wrists. 

"I see your heart line is forked. I wonder what that means," she says with a devious grin.

"Why doesn't it surprise me that the flagship of TattleCrime.com does palm reading?" Will asks flatly. 

"One of my many talents," Freddie purrs. 

"Is fortune-telling one of them?" Will asks annoyed. "Astrology? Why do I bother," he adds. "I already know you make your money with scam and trickery." 

"Are you a Taurus, Will?" she asks, enjoying herself a little too much. "No," she says then. "I'm guessing Scorpio. Very deadly and very ugly."

"It's hard for me to tell you," Will starts, overdoing it with a sad face, "but being funny is not among your talents."

"Good thing I was being serious then," Freddie says with another smirk. Her arrogance seemingly adds a few inches to her height. "By the way," she goes on, delivering every word with velvety lips, yet the kiss of death would be sweeter. "A splitting heart line indicates the willingness to sacrifice everything for love."

 

* * * * *

 

"They just started," Jack tells Will, leading him into the small area behind the interrogation room. Behind the mirror wall, a Peeping Tom's dream. The hidden area where power relations become institutionalized and where Will's privacy has been undermined before. So easy to forget there might be someone behind the glass, listening in and taking silent notes on your every movement. 

Chiyoh is grace embodied, all straight lines -- straight back, straight eyes, straight hair -- and steady hands. She wears an untouchable aura, as if the slightest contact with the world would be beyond her. Impossible even to consider. 

"I understand you know Hannibal Lecter from a shared youth in France," Miriam says. Her composed posture can't match Chiyoh's disinterest in her surroundings. "Have you had any contact with him recently?"

"I do not think," Chiyoh starts, voice smooth and with a thick accent that pulls Will in and takes him back to another place, another time, "he has my current address," she continues. 

"There are different ways to contact someone," Miriam remarks. Will can only see her shoulders and back, yet he can envision her face quite clearly. He believes there would be a trace of fear behind the determination in her eyes. 

"Anything aside from a handwritten letter would be an insult in Hannibal eyes," Chiyoh explains. "He has no reason to insult me." Her words make Will smile. Her familiarity with Hannibal is somewhat refreshing, considering that Will was bound to seek a similar understanding of Hannibal as insightful as his own in other victims. Like Miriam. Or Margot. Chiyoh's knowledge exceeds those experiences. Exceeds Bedelia's pseudo analyses. A bond more primal. Like family. 

"What about printed letters?" Miriam presses. 

"I have not received any letters," Chiyoh just says. 

"Yet, we have reason to believe he wanted you to read something of his," Miriam tells her. "Scientific articles, to be precise." 

"I have no knowledge of psychology," Chiyoh says. "I have only known Hannibal before he became a therapist." 

"Do you know Will Graham?" Miriam asks them, causing Will's heart to pick up pace. 

"What are you doing, Jack?" Will asks, surprised by how well he can hide his nervousness. Mere exasperation is his tone. "Telling a well-versed sniper my name? Why don't you give her my address?"

"Hannibal wanted her to find you anyway," Jack just says. "I don't think your name is news to her. Or was that another lie you told me, Will?"

Chiyoh pretends to think, enhancing the silence Will left Jack with.

"Not that I remember," Chiyoh says. 'Atta girl, Will thinks, but it it's not his own voice speaking in his head. 

"Have you seen these before?" Miriam asks, handing Chiyoh the cut out articles of the Journal for Criminal Psychology. 

"No," Chiyoh tells her. 

"Does Hannibal have more acquaintances like you?" Miriam asks. "With a similar history?"

"I do not know about any friends Hannibal made in the course of his life," Chiyoh says. "I was not present to witness any relationships."

"Why did you come to Maryland?" Miriam wonders. 

"This particular place was recommended to me," Chiyoh says and glances through the mirror for a split second, well aware that Jack must be standing behind it. 

"She saved your life, Jack," Will reminds him once more. "Are you sure Miriam is the right person to be conducting this interrogation?"

"She's aware of the gray areas," Jack just says. 

"All of them?" Will asks. "Muskrat Farm was chaos, Jack. Florence was chaos. We all need to erase those days from our memories. It could have been anybody freeing Hannibal. It could have even been Mason himself," he suggests. "You sent her here, Jack. You can't punish her for that."

"She never saved my life, Will," Jack says then. "She spared it. While I appreciate it, we both know it was luck before mercy. And we both know as far as Hannibal is concerned, it isn't going to be a permanent decision."

"Have you met with Hannibal here in the US?" Miriam asks. 

"He wasn't aware of my arrival," Chiyoh says. "I wasn't aware the police was looking for him."

"But you were aware of his arrest?" Miriam asks. 

"Only when it was already sealed," she explains. 

"Did you meet with him?" Miriam asks again. 

"I saw him very briefly," Chiyoh admits. "Just before Jack Crawford arrived," she tells her. A feathery threat. "There was only time for very few words."

"He was with you just before he was arrested," Jack says. 

"I was barely conscious. If they met, I doubt it happened in my house," Will tells him, careful not to sound defensive.

"What were those words?" Miriam asks her. 

"Words of admiration," Chiyoh tells her. "As I said, we weren't able to see each other for a very long time. There certainly was joyful surprise in our reuniting."

"Where did you meet?" Miriam asks. "A place called Muskrat Farm?"

"Maryland is a big state," Chiyoh tells her. "It was coincidence that we ran into each other."

"Where?" Miriam presses. 

"I remember taking a long walk," she says. "He crossed my path."

"So long that it took you to Virginia? To Wolf Trap?" Miriam specifies. 

"Is that a place?" Chiyoh asks. "It sounds like a name taken out of a fairytale."

"It's where Will Graham lives," Miriam says. Impatience makes one of her legs twitch under the table. "Where Hannibal Lecter was arrested." 

"This place may be significant for you," Chiyoh tells her, "or him. But I can assure you it bears no significance to me. Neither does the name Will Graham. Or the man behind the name." There's a newly found icy rhythm between her words, yet Will finds it hard to remain cool. A newly discovered growth of ego on his side, he notes. Although she's hardly the first woman to kiss him and move on as easily as letting go of a handshake. 

"And Dr. Lecter?" Miriam asks. "Is he significant to you?"

"His influence is only relevant to my past," Chiyoh says.

"Our past is significant for our present," Miriam tells her. "Relevant to our future."

"I assume that you have met him yourself," Chiyoh says. She doesn't need to blink. Nor avert her eyes. All it takes is peripheral vision and Hannibal Lecter for a teacher. "Would you voluntarily admit to his significance to your present?" Chiyoh asks. "Or future?" And then there it is again. Another glance meant for Jack. Yet it hits Will like a deadly arrow. His feet don't move, but he feels as if he's stumbling back from the impact. 

"Truth does not bother with volition," Miriam says, stoic patience returning to her own feet. 

"What is your truth?" Chiyoh asks. Will can see how the tables slowly start to turn, but he can't bring himself to alert Jack to the careful magic that Chiyoh prepares.

"I would not voluntarily admit that there have been moments where I would think he was the only one left to understand me," Miriam tells her. Jack draws a sharp breath and then inelegantly covers it with a cough.

"Hannibal told me once," Chiyoh starts, "that the desire to be _cause_ is a human need." She speaks slowly and when she pauses, the silence encompasses the entire room and the surveillance section alike. Anticipation runs through Will, ready to soak up satisfaction. To lay eyes on another puzzle piece. Maybe make it fit into the picture. The endless picture. Stretching in every direction. Like the universe. Holey and porous. Jack doesn't share his anticipation. His hands finds their way into the pockets of his jacket. Shame guiding their way with certainty. "That sometimes the urge is so overwhelming, we settle for causing pain."

"Dr. Lecter doesn't strike me as the type to settle," Jack comments stiffly, trying to break the tension between them. 

"Hannibal doesn't believe in cause and effect," Will just says. "Not like we do." Or did. 

"Those who do," Chiyoh continues on the other side of the window --their concealed connection: one side, the sight of duty, on the other, only intuition left --, "are only guilty of destruction. They waste," she says. "They do not create." For a second it's Mason's undisfigured face that grins back at Will in the reflection of the glass. "Hannibal would be lucky to hear that he has not only caused you pain."

"How do you know that?" Miriam asks, calm but insecurity reaches for her from the dark edges of the room. And her mind.

"I understand your pain," Chiyoh tells her. "It is not what isolates you."

"No," Miriam agrees. "I don't have the same thoughts," she says. "Not the same as before."

"The unthinkable," Will says, mostly to himself, "becomes thinkable."

"He caused that," Miriam goes on. "Who caused him?"

"Hannibal," Chiyoh says, "was _caused_ by pain." She lets Miriam take it in. "He _created_ himself."

"And then he _caused_  me?" Miriam asks, almost spitting the verb. An act. Theater of indignation. As if she didn't know all along. "Did he cause you?"

"Someone else did," Chiyoh says. "Someone who was created by Hannibal," she explains, causing the temperature to rise in Will's neck and fall in his hands. 

"A friend?" Miriam asks, her shoulders and back suddenly nothing more than an insult to Will. 

"Not a friend," Chiyoh just says. "Friendship is just a harbor they passed through."

"On their way to?" Miriam presses. 

"I have said before, I don't know about any relationships Hannibal as gotten himself into," Chiyoh reminds her. "I have not spoken to him since he was arrested. And I have no interest to do that."

"Because you don't want to?" Miriam asks. "Or because you don't need to?"

"I only expected to hear one story from Hannibal," Chiyoh tells her. "And that story has come to an end. A while ago."

"Some stories linger," Miriam reminds her carefully. 

"Not this one," Chiyoh says determined. 

"Do you still care about him?" Miriam asks. "Care for your past?"

"When I was a young girl," Chiyoh says. "I used to dance in every room of the house. Lady Murasaki would always ask me, why I was dancing alone. I never knew what to reply. One day, Hannibal overheard her question. And when I was once again dwelling in the silence, he said to her: 'She's not dancing alone. We were just dancing from afar.'" 

"Are you still convinced this is the advantage you were looking for?" Will wonders, not turning though. He keeps his eyes on Chiyoh. The question of whether she assumes him here -- right next to Jack -- brushing over his mind. "I don't think she wants to participate in your mind games, Jack." 

"I'm starting to think she's playing a game of her own," Jack just says. "Who knew the devil would groom himself a guardian angel."

 

* * * * *

 

"I think I have made myself very clear in the past, Agent Graham," Bedelia tells him at the door. "I do not appreciate unannounced visits."

"Unannounced maybe," Will says. "But not unexpected, I believe."

"I don't think any of our conversations will provide you with the answers you seek," Bedelia informs him, tone as dry and cold as a winter's frost.

"I have abandoned answers," Will says. 

"It seems justified to ask what you haven't abandon yet," Bedelia tells him, as she lets him in without acknowledging it. 

"It was," Will says, his own voice feeling heavy to him, "what the doctor ordered."

"These emotions you are abandoning," Bedelia says. "They are only symptoms of your malady."

"I do not intend on curing my disease," Will tells her. 

"Do you intend to live with it?" she wonders. 

"I have tried to rid myself of it," Will says. "Many times." 

"Have you tried ignoring it?" Bedelia asks.

"I don't think that's an advice any doctor should give," Will remarks. 

"Many things of the mind should be ignored," Bedelia says. "Urges of self harm. Intrusive thoughts. Habits of manipulation, active or passive." 

"I want to borrow your ability not to root, Bedelia," Will says.

"Have you found yourself fall between the cracks again?" she asks. "I've been there."

"I'm sure you knew exactly the side you were falling onto," Will remarks. 

"Your perception is subjective, Will," Bedelia says. "You tend to forget that."

"I loathe your appetite for knowledge, Bedelia," Will tells her. "And yet here I am, tempted to feed it."

"In hope for?" Bedelia wonders.

"Realization," Will says and then laughs at himself. "Guidance even."

"It's neither guidance nor realization you are looking for," Bedelia informs him. "It's absolution."

"From you?" Will asks sarcastically.

"Who else could?" she wonders. 

"Someone with moral credentials," Will says. 

"I'm not surprised that you hold onto morality beneath all the things you have let go of," Bedelia tells him. "And I'm not surprised that you came here."

"And why is that?" Will asks. 

"Where else would you leave it?" she asks, face set between amusement and anticipation. "With whom?"

"I should have left my reservations behind before I came her," he says. "What's on my mind is beyond morality and self-preservation."

"And you wonder where it will take you?" Bedelia assumes. 

"I wonder how I arrived here," Will admits. 

"The answer is," she says and waits for him to herd up his attention, "on your own."

"I feel bound to a place that rejects me," Will admits. "And I long for a place where my belonging is uncertain."

"Your longing implies rejection of the alternative in return," Bedelia tells him. 

"A subconscious rejection," Will remarks. 

"Subconsciousness does not exist in psychoanalysis," Bedelia reminds him and then sighs as if she should have known better. Known about his academic shortcomings. "What you are referring to is only preconsciousness."

"I believe Hannibal calls psychoanalysis a _dead religion_ ," Will tells her. 

"Something he and I disagree upon," Bedelia just says. 

"The more we get to know each other, Bedelia," Will starts. "The less I understand you."

"Understand me?" she asks. "Or my relationship with Hannibal?" There's an answer within reach, but before Will can make a choice, Bedelia moves on. "I don't believe you and Hannibal agree on many things."

"And I don't believe comparing madness with madness is going to help us find a sane standard," Will argues. 

"You withhold yourself from the people around you," Bedelia starts. "And the ones you long for."

"Once bitten," Will comments dismissively, "twice shy."

" _Shy_ ," Bedelia muses. "Shyness protects those with vulnerable immune systems from acquiring illnesses."

"So shyness is an evolutionary advantage?" Will asks.

"An evolutionary solution to a biological disadvantage," she tells him. "I don't think it is fitting for what you experience though."

"No," Will admits. "I assume not." He feels a smile ghosting over his lips. Not necessarily a friendly one. "Not anymore."

"You said you wanted to borrow my ability not to root," Bedelia recalls. "May I ask what brought this-," she pauses, testing the word in her mind before speaking it, " _need_ onto you?"

"I have to abandon some loyalties," Will says. 

"I wasn't aware you had any," Bedelia just tells him. 

"You're doing it again, Bedelia," Will just says. "Comparing madness with madness."

"You have an obsession with me, Will,"  Bedelia tells him, posture and face not reacting to her words. "You have a desire for rivalry that I do not share. You are looking for both, my defeat and my blessing. You expect a form of legitimacy to come from my dismissal. My rightful rejection, as you see it."

"Queens like you, Dr. Du Maurier," Will starts, "have experienced their dismissal through their beheading."

"I have no doubt, I will be seeing you among the cheering crowd," Bedelia says, "Agent Graham."

"Loyalty to the crown does not include yearning for it with greedy fingers," Will remarks. 

"Are these the loyalties you crave to snip off?" Bedelia wonders. 

"I'm being maneuvered into an uncomfortable position," Will says. "Joints are cracking," he goes on absently. "And the muscles strain."

"Who made you adopt this stress position?" Bedelia asks. 

"Jack," Will admits. "It seems he has recovered his preoccupation with his reputation."

"And put it above?" Bedelia asks, waiting for Will to finish the sentence.

"Above preserving peace," Will tells her. 

"I believe we were in a state of mere truce," Bedelia remarks. 

"I feel protective over those caught in the crossfire," Will confesses. "Whether guilty or not."

"And why is that?" Bedelia asks, mirroring Will's simple request. 

"Family," Will tells her. He allows himself a moment to let it sink. "You said before that my relationship with Hannibal could not grasp the concept of a favor," he recalls. 

"Do you believe I have been mistaken?" Bedelia wonders. 

"An act of kindness," Will says. "I believe that's how a favor is defined. A selfless act. Beyond what is due or usual."

"You are both already familiar with unusual acts," Bedelia says, considering him intently. "But how familiar are you with kindness? With generosity?"

"Hannibal is generous only with violence" Will says. 

"Violence is not rare," Bedelia remarks. 

"Hannibal's violence is rare," Will argues. "Not his cruelty. Not the death he allocates. I have made comparisons, have alluded to similarities, but I have not come across another scar like mine," he admits.

"Your understanding of Hannibal cannot contain who he is," Bedelia reminds him. "Violence can never be kindness."

"Violence can be desperation," Will says. "Desperation is rare."

"Desperation and devastation are exceptional emotional states," Bedelia says. "They cannot be sustained and cannot sustain a relationship."

"Favors are exceptional," Will tells her. 

"And is your favor fueled by kindness? Or by desperation?" Bedelia asks. 

"By forgiveness," Will admits. 

 

* * * * *

 

"I need you to let her go," Will tells Jack back at Quantico. 

"Good to see you too, Will," Jack just says. 

"You ask me not to sharpen a knife Hannibal will stab you with," Will reminds him. "You have started to grind it yourself."

"I can't hold her longer than twenty-four hours anyway," Jack says. "You know that," he reminds him. "Technically, I have no evidence. And a few bullets from Muskrat Farm that may or may not match a gun that was briefly pointed at me in Italy can hardly suffice." 

"Maybe we should not antagonize those who can help us understand him," Will says, tripping over his own anger.

"I am done with trying to understand him," Jack tells him. "I do not think anyone can. Not even you, Will."

"Then why did you bring me here?" Will demands to know.

"Evidently so you can talk to him behind my back," Jack reminds him with a sharp tone.

"I only did what you ask of me," Will argues. "Assess the situation."

"I would not be one step further in this investigation if it wasn't for Miriam," Jack says. "What exactly was your contribution, Will?"

"You are causing the same storm that will blow down your house, Jack," Will warns him. 

"Oh, I have learned enough about cause today, Will," Jack says, impatience and frustration creeping up his shoulders. His two little demons. "Spare me your remarks."

"He turned himself in," Will reminds him. "So I will know where to find him. There has been no reason for him to rearrange this condition."

"Maybe you gave him one," Jack just says. 

"Is that what you think, Jack?" Will asks. "That I went behind your back to rekindle the chase?"

"I have no way of knowing if his self ascribed purpose of his confinement was fulfilled by you," Jack tells him. 

"You have my word," Will says. 

"I don't believe your word counts for much here," Jack admits. 

"What else do you need?" Will asks. 

"What did you and Dr. Lecter talk about?" Jack presses.

"Teacups," Will says and in his mind Hannibal joins him as he speaks. "Time," Will goes on. "And the rules of disorder."

"What's that supposed to mean, Will?" Jack asks annoyed. The demon of impatience pulling on his nerves. 

"The scars," Will says then, with only his voice being left standing. "The past. And family."

"I have my own scars, Will," Jack says. "We all have. And the family I had is gone. Now he's threatening to take Alana's from her."

"No," Will says automatically. That's incorrect, he thinks, but can stop himself from saying it. 

"No?" Jack asks, frustration pouring disbelief in his tone.

"Just her," Will says, almost rueful. 

"And how is that any better?" Jack wonders. "Or different for that matter," he adds with the certainty only a family man can possess. A family man Will is not. 

"That's between Hannibal and Alana," Will just says. 

"It's between Hannibal and the law," Jack barks. "We're talking about killing someone for God's sake, Will."

"Nothing more intimate than that," Will comments. He's starting to feel Jack's annoyance knocking on his own door. 

"Then why would you ask me why I didn't kill him?" Jack wonders, but it's not a question. 

"Revenge is intimate," Will argues. 

"You know what else is intimate, Will?" Jack asks. "Love. Have you ever been in love, Will?" He sounds almost concerned. "And I don't mean: Has your empathy made you feel other people's love."

"Love is erratic, Jack," Will says. "The wayward child of emotions."

"Maybe your love," Jack starts. "Mine is reliable. And it makes me look out for the ones who stand upon it."

"The urge to protect can be capricious too," Will says.

"Only when you love for the first time," Jack tells him.

 

* * * * *

 

"See, I can never tell if it's luck or misfortune for us to run into each other," Freddie chirps as Will exits the FBI-building with his head somewhere between the clouds and the sands. 

"Personal misfortune," Will says absently.

"Professional luck it is then." Another annoyingly smile of white teeth between cherry lips. "Do you want to comment, Agent Graham?"

"Comment on what, Freddie?" Will asks, brushing off his shoulder in case impatience followed him outside.

"The arrest," she says, giving nothing away. "I'm sure Dr. Chiton will be relieved to hear the target has been removed from his chest."

"There was no arrest," Will tells her, choosing to call her bluff. Technically, it's true. It's not the term the FBI would use. "And please tell Frederick that it's not what's _on_ his chest thatHannibal is concerned about."

"I've seen what's inside," Freddie says unimpressed by Will's insinuation. "I feel like eating him after his intestines have been in open air would be like roasting a raccoon you found on the street. It shows bad taste."

"I don't think you should talk about taste," Will tells her, eyeing up the pattern on her jacket. 

"Should you?" she asks, wrinkling her nose as she gives him a quick once-over. 

"I would appreciate it if we wouldn't talk at all," Will just says. "Ever again. Stop lurking, Freddie. There's nothing here for you."

"I feel sorry for you, Will," Freddie tells him. "So I feel obliged to return the advice. There's nothing here for you. There is no happy end for star-crossed love between killers and cannibals. Wolf Trap seems like a nice place. Go home, Will."

"I wasn't aware you were capable of feeling at all," Will says, trying to reverse the drive, but it just comes out even more pathetic. 

"Nice try, Graham," Freddie starts. "But I'm sure your freaky empathy antennas have picked up one or two things."

"Only pride and self-exaltation," Will tells her. 

"I take that as a compliment," Freddie says, tone falling between cheerful and vicious. "Sins and sacraments. Makes for a good story. But you know this, don't you, Will? You're writing your own passage. Blood sacrifice and treason. And my very unexpected resurrection. Too bad there's everything but heaven waiting for you. Purgatory will take you straight to hell."

"One day, you and I, Freddie," Will says. "We will have to confess our sins and ask for forgiveness." He leans in close. Too close. For there is black currant, heavy vanilla, and blood orange. "And I don't think either of us will receive redemption." The whiff of betrayal.

 

* * * * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little change in narrative structure here, I hope it won't be too confusing. Also there are a couple of mentions of domestic violence and overall everyone continues to threaten everyone else with awful things. Except Hannibal who is an angel in this chapter :D

"The thing about booze," Will starts as he watches Alana pour them two glasses of his usual golden escape. "There is never enough in the house when despair and exasperation knock."

"I don't think I ever heard you say 'booze'," Alana tells him, hands a glass over and gets comfortable in the chair Will had last seen Margot in, holding their sleeping child. "There's always enough in my house."

"Because you are never desperate and exasperated," Will says with an honest smile. 

"No," she says, "not in the same way you are."

"As a therapist, you probably shouldn't endorse drinking as a coping mechanism," Will remarks, swallowing down half of the drink. The promise of blissful numbness washing over his tongue.

"I'm not _your_ therapist," Alana reminds him. 

"No," Will says, mirroring her earlier tone. "My therapist endorses murder for coping."

"Your ex-," Alana says, letting it linger, "-therapist."

"Sometimes," Will says, not looking at Alana -- but through her -- into the distance. "Sometimes, I feel the weight of the scars. They tug at the skin with every step," he goes on, lips moving only sluggish almost as if he just came back from the dentist. "With every move they yield to gravity. Trying to pull me down," Will admits, voice roughed up but it's not cracking yet. He has his whiskey to sooth his throat. "They want to pull me stomach-first into the dirt."

"They're scars, Will," Alana tells him gently. "They're made out of our own skin. He did not weave his hairs into the thread that stitched you up."

"Did he not?" Will asks, not waiting for an answer. Night crawls over the stables and fields as Muskrat Farm disappears into the dark. And Will imagines Alana owning only a cottage. This room and not much more. His cheeks feel warm, whether from the alcohol or the flickering fireplace, he can't say. "Hannibal," he adds to his thoughts, the name melting on his tongue, "he has tended to my wounds --like he always did-- with medical precision. But he was never detached from the damage." Will lets the fingers of one hand absently graze over the knuckles of the other. The touch burns from the past. "It was never just physical," he says.  "The hurt. It was always meaningful to him."

"Hurt makes us vulnerable," Alana reminds them. 

"Antiseptics. And sterilized bandages. I was not to get an infection," Will says bitterly. "But he'd already turned my veins into rivers of his thoughts. His disease."

"We were lured by his charm," Alana agrees. "And then bewitched by his influence."

"His _influence_ ," Will thinks out loud. " _Effluence_. He was flowing into me. Through me. Within me. The original meaning of the word influence is a reference to the supposed inflow of ethereal fluids that affected a person's fate."

"I didn't know," Alana admits. There's worry in her eyes and nervousness between her fingers where she's got her hands tangled together. 

"A spell of the stars," Will says. He feels the shiver only under his skin, not reaching the hairs on the back of his neck or the sound of his voice. 

"We had a long day, Will," Alana says, looking for a way to stop him going deeper into the thought.

"Too long," Will remarks. "Night has become a place I hesitate to visit," he adds. "I've been such a seldom guest, the nightmares have followed me into the day. Different from what they used to be."

"What happened, Will?" she asks. "What happened that got you so on edge? The fight you had with Jack? That's not you."

"This feels like yet another session," Will says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion filling his body, unable to be contained like an overflowing tub.

"Just a friend asking how you've been," Alana says with only her toes dipping into the pool of fatigue. 

Wordlessly, Will pulls a wrinkled envelope from his pocket and places it on the table between then. Almost careful, gentle, his hands reluctant to let go. Simultaneously, valuable and threatening. Pride and disaster looming in the way Hannibal's handwriting stretches over the paper. 

"What happened after you woke up?" Alana asks, keeping her eyes on the letter as if there was a chance it would start to move like an insect falsely assumed to be dead. 

"Pounding headaches," Will says. "Stomach so tight I would have sworn he had force-fed me another ear. The shrill ringing of a phone."

Memories blur with the low buzz in his ears and his head, the cracking fire the color of the morning sky and in the distance his dogs barking over the early delivery...

 

 ~...~...~...~

 

... "Hey," Will calls out from between sweat-soaked sheets and the crumbled corner of his pillow. Winston yelps at hearing Will's voice but Buster continues to growl at the door. "Stop that," Will tries again but their little commotion won't die down. 

His neck feels stiffer than the handle of his fly rod and his knees crack when being faced with the weight of his body. 

"Quiet," Will hisses, holding his forehead, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. Pain surges from his temple to his neck, from his shoulders to the back of his head. He gags over the tensing muscles in his body, the overwhelming dizziness and the paralyzing ache that blinds him apart from white spots behind his eyelids. "Quiet," he repeats, hardly a whisper now as he commands his body just as his dogs to finally obey him. 

Winston licks his hand, but it barely reaches Will's consciousness. He stumbles over an array of dog toys, loose papers and an empty bottle of gin. He downs two aspirins, with too little water, thinking of doubling the dosage but he's not up for another round of side effect headaches caused by low blood pressure.

There's a stack of newspapers on his porch -- he doesn't bother to pick them up anymore, let alone read them -- and a letter addressed to him from the FBI. 

It's not the first kind he got and Will considers leaving it to its own destiny. Considers letting rain and wind and frost take care of what he's too cowardly to deal with. 

"Damn you and your letters," Will curses quietly and Buster tilts his head, judging Will from the height of his ankles. Maybe his dogs just smell his half-hearted insults. Baseless and empty and never logically consistent. 

He gives his pills a few more minutes to kick in before he dares to take a bare-footed step outside. 

_Dear Will,_

_writing you has been a privilege and pleasure but I fear since we last saw each other I have to conceptually reduce it to a mere exercise of my rights. I am entirely convinced that, after his interruption today, Jack will do everything in his power to force his seal into the wax of our correspondence._

_I promised I'd write you again, Will, in the solace of the darkest hours. I cannot verify the time, so I can only hope you trust my account. I've had an impeccable instinct for time since I was a boy, Will, but it I am well aware that your clocks turn at a different pace by now._

_It must be shortly after three now and I reckon this night has felt longer to you too. We have talked lengthy about time, Will, and I feel almost obtrusive to so shamelessly steal more minutes from you than I usually do in my letters to you._

_There have, however, been many things that were left unsaid in our latest conversations, more than we usually keep to ourselves. As I am without doubt that Jack will never grant you any visits from this day on, that he will find a way to dry or delay communication, that he will suggest you leave Baltimore behind, that he will end your ties to the FBI for good, I fear my words will lack the appropriate maturity. But time isn't our friend Will, never has been, so I will render to the rush as the slow mills of law and administration start moving against us._

_You have asked me about scars, Will, and while I am not without admiration for your markings, your focus on the visual might be hasty. As you can imagine, I myself have collected scars over the years, but I only assign meaning to those that connect to you. Mason was not aware of the gift he has given me when he chose to mark me on that particular day. Many decisions where made that day, interestingly only one by me, shortly after I got back hold of my hands: The decision to return and save you._

_I am aware, you do not believe in the concept of decisions either, Will, but I have never found myself with clearer senses or brisker awareness than in the moment I came for you._

_I don't assume you remember that moment, as you had passed out from the pain. Something I found quite unusual for you. I don't think of this day in agony, not even when I relive the pain of your rejection in my memories._

_As you know, I don't believe in regrets. Still do not. And I will spare you any deliberations about how pain is a ruthless yet effective teacher, as I am sure, and I don't write this without any irony, neither of us has learned their lesson yet. I believe that pain can be as addictive as the routines of an ordinary life. Your pain certainly is. Not the one caused by your rejection, but the one I experience now. You are a tease, Will, and it's causing me as much joy as it causes me impatient discomfort._

_We have talked about the delay of relief writing can cause, about the uncertainty of desynchronized communication, the long awaited response. I am left to wonder about your condition, thoughts and immediate reactions, I am not left to wonder about whether I will hear from you again. Jack will see to that. And for now, both of us will have to let him._

_The pain of separation is immediate, Will, and yet I only feel the the anticipation of seeing you again. As it is far more improbably now than it had been the last time, I expect our next encounter to be almost as striking as seeing you beside me in Florence. Beside me, Will. Not with me._

_I have kept to my promise to abandon the version of you that I once drew, satisfyingly aware that I could never capture the vibrancy of your inner turmoil and the distinct sharp lines, the blade of your mind that you fear to wield. Have you kept yours and abandoned the dusty portrait of an idealized life? I know you fear the blur of madness, Will. I know you fear the claim of superiority._

_I see your flaws, Will, the ones aside from your passion and righteousness. I see your self-pity and your complete lack of ambiguity tolerance. I see your inability to match how you want to be seen and how you present yourself - within and in concern for your outer appearance. I see your despise for those who appreciate you, your rejection of admiration as you struggle to separate it from worship._

_Have you worshiped me once, Will? I think we both know. I was as surprised and self-conscious as you. You had seen me save a life before, Abigail's life, but that time you had the luxury of spectatorship. We both have allowed ourselves a little worship. And we both have lost ourselves in the worship of our respective Imagos._

_You were perfect to me once, Will. Vision may be clearer now, but I'd rather have your flaws close, Will, than not have you at all._

_Who we both are, not as separate individuals, but in relation to each other, has not been revealed yet. It has cast a shadow though. And I remember each moment as clearly as if it was a creation of my own imagination. My own yearning._

_If we're lucky, we will not have to preserve that feeling but will be able to relish in it. Relish in the feverish dream._

_Until then, Will, until then, keep these for me:_

_My apologies._

Will's finger twitch with the instinct to ball up his words and dispose of them right then and there. But no force reaches their movement. Instead their quiver makes the paper flutter almost mockingly, humiliating Will with his lack of composure. He blames the aspirin...

 

~...~...~...~

 

"Nothing I'd want to wake up to," Alana remarks, sight still set on the letter lying between them. Light and quiet, yet screaming with weight. 

"Certainly a surprise," Will agrees, fingers reaching for the envelope. 

"Hannibal always keeps his promises," Alana reminds him. 

"Is it true?" Will asks, forcing himself to stand. 

"What is?" Alana wonders. 

"That Jack is going cut him off," Will clarifies, his skin tingling with the sensation of feeling the fiery heat of and the flickering light. "That he's going to cut me off. Have the FBI let me go?"

"Is that why you lashed out at him?" Alana asks. "Because of what Hannibal assumes?"

"Is it true?" Will repeats, teasing the flames as he holds the letter over the dancing heat.

Silence first, and emotional void. A spark of discomfort then, like annoyance over bad timing, a hint of stress.

Will waits. 

Seconds pass. 

No guilt. 

"He's doing you a favor, Will. It's for the best," Alana just says and somehow Will finds himself nodding at her words as he releases the letter and watches the flames consume black ink on crisp white paper. A messenger's ashes. He's going to keep what was sent to him beyond this grave...

 

~...~...~...~

 

..."Apologies for what?" Will asks as if anyone would reply. The answer's pounding just as hard in the back of his head as his blood, forcing its way through tightened canals. 

Over the sharp edge of the thick paper Will's eyes pick up on a familiar face that revives the biting pain in his spine. 

"How?" Will asks, but this time there's silence at the back of his head. With numb fingers he picks up the paper, a TattleCrime's special edition, and finds himself face to face with a photo of Chiyoh. "For God's sake," he says with tight lips, trying to contain his anger. 

'The Ripper's Handmaiden', reads the title and Will fights back the urge to vomit. In every line, Freddie's voice, speaking to him with the satisfied anticipation of being able to feel contempt. He tears the pages in order to shut her up, but his anger has barely enough time to conquer every part of his body as inside Will's phone starts to ring with an irritating urgency that leaves neither room for a big thunder of emotions nor a clearing storm.

"Yes?" Will just asks, because caller ID has already warned him about the familiar intruder. 

"I need you in Quantico ASAP," Jack tells him straight off, not bothering with formalities either. 

"You have Miriam," Will reminds him. "Alana. A whole unit of agents and investigators. What do you need me for, Jack?" There should be an _anymore_ somewhere in his last sentence but Will needs more time, less headache and a proper re-read of Hannibal's letter to get his feelings and thoughts in order.

"Did you read the TattleCrime special?" Jack asks impatiently. Where one little demon shows, the other can't be too far, Will thinks, preparing for Jack's barks of frustration. 

"The headline," Will says. 

"We had to let Chiyoh go," Jack informs him, "and now we can't get a hold of her anymore. I have people asking me how that is possible. People in high places, Will."

"Told you, this was going to end bad," Will remarks without feeling too bad about it. 

"That wasn't everything," Jack warns. "Freddie Lounds has been attacked. She's at Johns Hopkins Hospital. Still unconscious, Will. They say it could take months for her recover. I have no witnesses. Nothing. I need you to look at the scene."

"Was she shot from the roof of the building just across the street?" Will asks sarcastically. "Because then me looking at the scene would be a waste of time. If it isn't anyway. You got your suspect. And I told you you were walking on thin ice." He feels Jack's agitation, the pressure he's under and the pressure he tries to pass onto Will. His empathy causes his mind to wonder about the disruption of an induced coma, causes him discomfort at image of Freddie Lounds, pesky pain-in-the-ass constantly nagging inexhaustibly Freddie Lounds, to be silenced by a muted brain and artificial respiration. There are no emotions however he can ascribe to being personally touched, so he doesn't bother with faking condolences. 

"She wasn't," Jack just says. "And I'd rather you confirm my suspicions."

"I'm in Virginia, Jack, feeling like _I_ have been shot from the roof of the building just across the street and like Hannibal tried to open and cook my brain. Again," Will tells him. "I'm not driving out to Quantico today."

"You can meet me in Baltimore," Jack says. "But that's non-negotiable. I can send someone to pick you up."

"I'd rather you leave me alone," Will argues. "You don't trust my opinion anymore, Jack. Have Miriam look at the scene."

"Miriam is trying to track down Chiyoh," Jack says, "while Alana is trying to keep a very demanding Frederick Chilton of my back. I need you to do this, Will. Consider it a personal favor."

"Fine," Will spits through gritted teeth and not without contempt. "I meet you in Baltimore, Jack"...

 

 ~...~...~...~

 

"Personal favors are for friendships, Alana," Will says, turning around to leave the flames behind. "What kind of friend gets another friend fired."

"The kind that worries," Alana tries. 

"He doesn't worry about me," Will tells her. "He worries about his reputation. He was worried about his reputation this morning. It's the only non-negotiable justification in Jack's mind set." 

"When it comes to Jack, you prefer to see the worst in him," Alana says. "You're compelled to do that."

"Friendship is blackmail," Will reminds her. "I think those were _your_ words. In that sense, Jack is an excellent friend."

"What about Hannibal's blackmail?" Alana asks bluntly. 

"You worry too much, Alana," Will tells her. "He and I are not friends, right?" There's sarcasm on his tongue and a hint of spite. 

"No," she states. "I wonder what you are," she adds.

"Inescapable agents of the other's fate." He shifts on his chair, but his discomfort goes deeper than the muscles in his thighs. "Our conjoined fate."

"I have told you before, Will," Alana says concerned. "You have agency."

"What I don't have is emotional security," Will says. "Hannibal was right about that. He was right about Jack offering me nothing but emotional intimidation. His feelings are as bulky and present as Jack is in person," he adds.

"And Hannibal is different?" Alana asks. "Less intimidating for you?"

"Is Hannibal fueled by anger?" Will argues. "By frustration and impatience? By compulsive integrity and the vigorous steam of urgency?"

"He's fueled by contempt," Alana says.

"Curiosity," Will tells her. "Amusement. And contempt for the rude."

"His motives might be simple," she offers. "But his emotions are not."

"He has no fear," Will says. "And fear is all that we have left. What have our lives been reduced to, Alana?"

"He would argue we were collecting enriching experiences," Alana states. "And you're drawn to that." 

"Weren't you?" Will states. "Were you," he wonders, slightly nervous. Despite everything. Knowing he's better off not knowing. "Were you in love with him?"

She smiles then. And for a moment they are not talking about the Chesapeake Ripper. And for a moment they are still friends. Friends at the verge of something. Innocent flirtations. And full of hopes. "Aren't we too cynical for love?" she asks.

"I thought, you said we were to unstable," Will recalls. 

"Only you," she says with another smile. "I was too stable for love."

"And now?" Will asks. 

"I don't think either of us can go back to how they loved before," she assumes. 

"Unburdened?" Will wonders. 

"Before Hannibal," Alana starts and Will needs a moment to recover from how his name on her tongue stripped him off his defenses, "there was opportunity for love around every corner," she says and Will can't help an immature chuckle. "I was hesitant to take it, of course," she adds. "But it was roaming free."

"And now?" Will asks. 

"Now, we can only love those who understand," Alana says honestly. Almost brutally honest. "The love has been caged in this world we got trapped in," she tells him. "There aren't too many people left to love. Or left to love us." 

A moment of silence that stretches painfully. Filled with so many hurtful indications, short to burst and leave everyone deafened and stained. 

"Like a class trip," Will remarks. "To hell." He takes a moment to let his own hurt settle. "I've been cutting my Bourbon with Rum, Alana," he goes on. "This life we got trapped it, it is not for me."

"You behave like a miserable broken-hearted man, Will," she says. "Were you in love with him?" Alana asks, eyes telling Will that she's aware of the weight and the burden her question carries.

"I was shaken by him," Will says. His words gone rogue. 

She smiles nonetheless. "He does that," she just says. 

"Are we allowed to talk like that?" Will asks, but he knows how he's been talking. So the question behind lingers, itching in his throat until he sets it free. "Are you allowed to talk like that?"

"Talk how?" she asks right back. She doesn't seem bothered. Doesn't feel bothered. 

"Like he was a person," Will says. 

"He is a person," Alana reminds him. It doesn't feel real to Will, hearing her say these words. 

"Not a person to love," Will remarks. 

"Love is indiscriminate about where it settles," Alana says. 

"You are more comfortable with the idea of me being in love with Hannibal than the idea of me being in love with you," Will states. A painful reality. 

"Don't mistake awareness for comfort, Will," she tells him. "You have made choices I may be able to understand under the premise of love."

"Understand but not forgive?" Will asks

"Not excuse," she corrects him. 

"And if these choices were not made under the premise of love?" he wonders. 

"Then I would be terrified of that person sitting in front of me now," she admits.

"My choices for love were limited before I met Hannibal, Alana," Will tells her, avoiding her eyes purposefully. "And you and me? We didn't stand a chance. Isn't that right?"

"So it was either me or the Chesapeake Ripper?" she asks, the implications rumbling in her chest. "Talk about emotional intimidation," she adds with a distinct layer of anger. "I'm not the problem, Will. And neither is Jack. Your relationship with Hannibal is the problem and it's time someone puts an end to it. Go home," Alana pleads. "Go home and be done with it," she says, mirroring Freddie's last advice to Will... 

 

~...~...~...~

 

 

..."What do you see, Will?" Jack asks, containing his tone. Wrapping it in the pretense of patience.

"A fight?" Will asks back, more rhetorical than anything else as he digs his fingers into the muscles of his neck for some tension relief. A low dull ache is still pulsing from his temples all the way to his spine. "What do you see, Jack? This isn't exactly corpses turned into angels. Or a woman sewed into a horse." He smiles thinking about Peter. The animal lover. Not the only thing they had in common. "I don't see what you need me for."

"Freddie was attacked last night," Jack tells him. "But she was only found this morning. Hours before the article was published."

"Not before it was written though," Will argues. "It hadn't just been uploaded, Jack. It was printed."

"Could anyone have known about it?" Jack wonders. 

"You mean could Chiyoh have known about it?" Will corrects.

"She had,- what," Jack starts, standing as rooted and grounded as ever as Will starts orbiting around him, movement breaking and easing the conversation, "two hours?" Jack continues. "Maybe two-and-a-half to get here after we let her go? That's not a lot of time, Will."

"You don't think it was connected?" Will tries to clarify. 

"That's what I'm asking you," Jack tells him. "Does this look like vengeance to you? Maybe for discovering you'll be finding yourself on the front page as the Ripper's subserving henchwoman?"

"So you are asking me if Chiyoh did this?" Will asks, taking a few more careful steps through the room. There's shattered glass on the floor, smudged blood and a small pool of water where the vase hit the floor. A couple of red roses are scattered over the tiles, withering in the dry air. "A bit theatrical if you ask me."

"She does have a propensity for the dramatic," Jack argues.

"This doesn't look like someone who needed a lot of time," Will says. "This was a spur of the moment crime, Jack. This is anger, not just long brooding disdain. This was a burst of immature rage. Yet arrogant fury. There wasn't going to be another word spoken from her mouth, there was not going to be another lie for an explanation. No other deception. Her perfidy caused this. Her insatiability for scandalous affairs. This was retaliation, Jack, not revenge."

"If I was her, I'd surely be up for retaliation," Jack says. 

"Does she ping you as the explosive type?" Will wonders.

"No," Jack admits. "Deadly nonetheless," he remarks.

"Have you considered looking for someone a bit more personal?" Will asks.

"The boyfriend?" Jack clarifies, raising his eyebrows to the height of investigative consideration, comfortably between unexpected astonishment and dismissal of the ridiculous.

"Isn't that what we would usually do?" Will asks, a serious tone replacing the sarcasm his words usually carry. " _I am a jealous God, My wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them._ "

"You're reading the bible now, Will?" Jack comments and then proceeds to shake his head. "Quoting the old testament?"

"Been reading up on the devil," Will just says. "Refreshing my memory."

"You think Chilton could have done this?" Jack asks, steering them back from Hannibal's phantom presence.

"Love is merely a madness," Will says. 

"Seriously?" Jack asks. "Shakespeare too?"

"All I'm saying is that he wouldn't be the first jealous lover trying to prove a point with his fists," Will argues. "And I don't think Freddie Lounds appreciates being tied down. Recipe for disaster."

"I have no sympathy for abusers, Will," Jack says. "I don't care for Freddie Lound's love life. But whoever did this is going to jail"...

 

~...~...~...~

 

"I went home," Will says, avoiding Alana as he keeps his eyes down. "I went home and I was done with it. I was home just this morning. I _was_ home and done with it. And then Jack ordered me to Baltimore to look at another crime scene."

"Not just another crime scene," Alana reminds him.

"Do I owe Freddie Lounds now?" Will asks. 

"You won't have to come ever again," she tells him.

"This life," Will starts, "it may not be for me. But I won't be forced out, Alana." 

"You complain about being here, you complain about not being here," Alana says. "You can't have it both ways, Will."

"How about my way?" Will asks.

"You didn't come to confide in me," she realizes. 

"I came to tell you, that I am going to see him again," Will says, determination present in every cell and every pore. He's wearing his dress of shame and shamelessness proudly today. "I am informing you, Alana," he goes on. "I am not asking for permission." 

"You are not going to see him again, Will," Alana tells him. "Not after what you did to Jack. To the both of us."

"I'm going to talk to him, Alana. I am going to talk to him alone," Will states. 

"You are going to see him," Alana says then with teary eyes. It pains Will to know he hurt her but for a moment Will can't quite shake his disbelief over the surprise. "To say goodbye," she adds then. "For good"...

 

~...~...~...~

 

..."No offense, but I was hoping that we would not see each other again, Dr. Bloom," Chilton says. "Not here. In the same interrogation room where I was shot." 

"We're sorry for your inconvenience, Frederick," Alana says politely as Will and Jack watch her from behind the same voyeuristic mirror they had watched Miriam and Chiyoh not that long before.

"Is there a reason why I am suddenly being treated as a criminal?" Chilton asks annoyed. "When I said I wanted Jack Crawford to take action immediately, I certainly didn't mean wasting my time and his with more pointless questions. If he has so intention to ever follow up on any of the information I have already given him, he may as well just say so."

"We're having a few more questions," Alana says calmly and with the professional detached compassion any psychiatrist talks.

"I already told you everything I know," Chilton says, face a little skeptical as he leans back in his chair. 

"Maybe you can tell us where you were yesterday night," she asks. 

"Are you asking what I think you're asking?" Suspicion dawn's on Chilton's face and he leans forward now, placing his hands on the table.

"I'm asking where you were last night, Dr. Chilton," Alana repeats. 

"This accusation is audacious," Chilton tells her. "Ridiculous. And insulting!"

"It's standard procedure to look into a victim's personal relationships," Alana reminds him. "Romantic relationships in particular. They can be quite passionate," she explains and Will can't help the thought that Hannibal would enjoy watching Alana like this. Composed and powerful and intelligent above all. 

"It seems to be standard procedure at the FBI these days to turn a blind eye to their most dangerous criminal," Chilton spits in anger. 

"You think what happened to Freddie is connected to Hannibal?" Alana asks. 

"I am sure, Miss Bloom," Chilton tells her, voice a representation of his certainty. 

"Dr. Bloom," Alana corrects him. 

"Of course," Chilton says. "Slip of the tongue." The sarcasm hangs heavy around his apology.

"And Mrs.," she adds, and although Will cannot see her smile, he can hear it. 

"I'll keep that in mind," Chilton assures Alana, eyeing up the mirror behind her. 

"Did Freddie mention fearing an assault?" Alana asks, pulling Chilton back into the conversation. "Was she threatened?"

"She was well aware that she wasn't making her life any easier by continuing to write about Lecter," he says. "Or any safer. But she was committed to the truth." Will huffs at the unintentional humor of mentioning Freddie and a commitment to truth in the same sentence. "And making it accessible to the public," Chilton adds. "Which she did. And I wish she was well enough to see the fruits of her brave work."

"I'm sure you do," Alana remarks, but with a gentleness that makes any implications obsolete. "Who else knew that Freddie was working on the article that was published this morning," Alana asks. 

"Me," Chilton tells her with such pride as if that fact would make him more desirable. "A source, her editor," he goes on. "And whoever attacked her."

"And who do you think her attacker was," Alana probes.  

"That woman," Chilton says with more than a dash of contempt. "Chiyoh Something. Whatever her name is. I can't remember."

"How could she have known?" Alana asks.

"I assume from the FBI," Chilton says, arrogance seeping through every single one of his pores. "And I am holding Jack Crawford directly and personally responsible. In fact, I request to see the I.G. right now. And my lawyer," he adds. "I didn't come here to be accused of assaulting the woman I love. I came here to demand justice for her, Mrs Bloom," he adds condescendingly. Refusing to address Alana by her academic title.

"How would Jack be responsible?" Alana asks even though it is dangerous territory after the mention of legal counsel, confusion and uncertainty tainting her voice.

"Because it seems his little protégé has gone rogue," Chilton tells her. "I believe she was Freddie's source at the FBI. And from what I've heard, she's been conducting the interrogation with that Chiyoh-woman," he says. "A perfect opportunity to leak some information back. I'm guessing _special agent_ just wasn't enough for her. _Double agent_ must have seemed more attractive to her. It wouldn't surprise me if that was Lecter's doing"...

 

~...~...~...~

 

"Did you know that Miriam was acting as source for TattleCrime.com?" Will asks.

"I don't believe what Chilton said," Alana argues.

"He's right," Will tells her. 

"Did Freddie tell you that?" she asks then.

"Hannibal did," Will admits, finding himself feeling as strange over hearing him say these words as Chiyoh did all those months ago when he had asked her about Mischa's murder.

"And he is more credible than Chilton?" Alana wonders.

"He smelled it," Will adds, not without a distinct distaste of said fact. "Freddie's perfume all over Miriam."

"Hannibal," Alana starts, "smelled it?" she asks, as if they would knew anyone else who possessed that kind of ability. Anyone else who had smelled that same betrayal before.

"He was right," Will just says. 

"And who confirmed it?" Alana presses.

"I did," Will tells her. 

"How?" she adds. 

"It's true, Alana," Will insists. "And just as Frederick Chilton, I doubt Miriam acts without Jack's approval. So I'm asking if you've known?"

"No," she says with so much vulnerability that Will believes her. Out of reflex, Will nods at her words again. "How do you know, Will? How do you know this is not one of Hannibal's manipulations?" Alana asks, voice much thinner now and laced with a slight tremor. "Manipulation of you. Of Miriam. How can you know for sure?" 

"I think Jack's reaction spoke for itself," Will reminds her...

 

~...~...~...~

 

..."Nothing more traitorous than silence," Will says when Jack has been motionless for a couple of seconds, not reacting at all to Chilton's words. "Nothing more truth-baring than silence."

"You have something to say, Will," Jack tells him, "then say it. Stop getting on my nerves with what you don't say."

"What about the things you keep to yourself, Jack?" Will wonders as Alana excuses herself on the other side of the glass leaving Chilton to himself. Out of the corner of his eyes, Will can see how he buries his face in his hands just before Jack's voice pools all his attention again.

"I suggest you leave now, Will," Jack tells him. 

"Shouldn't you have mentioned the possibility of Chiyoh being tipped off?" Will asks. "You knew about Miriam, didn't you? Was is your idea? Feed Freddie with information so she'll let you off the hook?"

"You said to me the scene didn't look like Chiyoh," Jack reminds him. "You pointed to Chilton. Now he's pointing at me."

"What about Miriam?" Will asks. "Did Freddie not hold up to her end of the deal? Was she going to throw you back under bus, Jack? For letting Chiyoh go? For taking so long to find her? Did Miriam took matters into her own hand? Retribution in the name of your reputation?"

"I will not stand here and listen to this," Jack tells him through gritted teeth.

"Or is Frederick right?" Will goes on. "You heard her say it with your own ears. How sometimes she thinks Hannibal is the only one in the world who understands her. She told me herself that there were moments she felt like she needed to see him too. Did you let her, Jack? Was she allowed to talk to him alone? And where's Miriam now?" Will presses. "Going after Chiyoh? Or running off with her?"

"This story is old news, Will," Jack hisses, facing him head-on now. "And the protagonists where called Graham and Lecter. Your projection is pathetic."

"Call me pathetic, Jack," Will says, caught between triumph and devastation. "At least I'm not a self-serving hypocrite who sees himself as a demigod and pimps his girlfriend out to the guy who held her hostage for over three years-"

It comes faster and with more force than even Will could have predicted. He stumbles back, hand shooting up to his mouth, lips split, cut by his own teeth, as the taste of blood fills his mouth like it hadn't in fifteen months. He needs a moment to shake it off, vision's blurry and the pain races through his head down to his elbows and lower back. Worse than this morning, paralyzing and taunting. Making his ears start ringing and his jaws start cramping.

"Get out of my sight, Will," Jack just says, but it takes an eternity for Will to take it in over the aching nerves that drown every thing else out. Much longer for him to even consider reacting. "Get out," Jack shouts suddenly which does the trick. Will's brain snaps out of it, words starting to make sense again as it regains its focus on listening comprehension. "Get out before you catch another one," Jack adds and Will does his best not to trip over his own feet first, then over a speechless Alana and finally over his own cruelty on the way out. _Sometimes we settle for causing pain_ , it echoes in Will's mind...

 

~...~...~...~

 

"Jack trusts Freddie as much as you do, Will," Alana tells him. "He wouldn't sink that low."

"Do you still trust Jack?" Will just asks. 

"With mt child's life," Alana says without a second of hesitation. 

"Then this is history repeating itself," Will remarks with a bitter tongue. 

"There's no evidence, Will," Alana argues. "There is only Chilton's word for it. Freddie has her ways of obtaining information."

"And Miriam is one of them," Will argues. 

"You shouldn't be driving home, Will," Alana tells him. "Not after what happened with Jack. Not after a drink."

"I think you're the only person who can manage to kick someone out by telling them not to go," Will says. 

"I mean it," Alana tries to assure him. "You can stay. More than one guest room to choose from."

"It was just a drink Alana," Will says. "And just the punch I deserved," he admits. "No pun intended."

 

* * * * *

 

The chaos in his house is all the same when he returns from Muskrat Farm, so is the excitement of his dogs upon seeing him, and the emotional distance and comfort his home has to offer. Yet something has changed and Will blames the violent disruptions of his day, his sore muscles and the residue of Hannibal's written words. He only notices his missing gun when it's being held to his head.

"Hello Will," Chiyoh says, slow and calm, accent and voice triggering the most surreal memories of Will's journey to Florence. 

"If I were you, Chiyoh," Will says, "I'd leave the country as stealthy and silently as you entered it."

"And why is that?" Chiyoh asks as innocent as a little girl. 

"Are you here because Hannibal told you to come?" Will asks. "A few months late for that visit."

"What if he told me to come here and kill you?" she asks. 

"Then I wouldn't be surprised," Will says. They're both just as steady as the other yet in opposite ways. Will's as certain as a compass needle, Chiyoh as persistent as the moon in a clear sky. And between them, the tension of a silver coin spinning in the air. "It should worry you though, Chiyoh," Will goes. "He only ever sends people to me, if he intends for me to kill them instead."

"You wouldn't stand a chance," she tells him and lets the safety catch click to prove her point. 

"You held out for an eternity," Will recalls, "giving up your own life so you wouldn't have to take another. Look at you now," he tells her. "No hesitations to pull the trigger. Hannibal must be proud."

"He is not fond of guns," Chiyoh reminds him. "It was Lady Murasaki who taught me how to shoot."

"And who taught you to kill?" Will asks. 

"That was you," Chiyoh just says."Hannibal taught me to be still. He gave me a choice. To either take a life or to remain in the place where his began. Where Mischa's began. You took it upon yourself to correct my choice. You were already on your path to Florence. And then you pushed me onto the same. From where Jack sent me to Maryland. To Muskrat Farm. I told you once before Will, I am only violent when it is the right thing to do.“

"I never had to chance to thank you for what you did," Will admits, knowing that Hannibal and him wouldn't have made it out alive if it hadn't been for her. And he means it. "Is it the right thing to do now?

"I didn't come here for violence," Chiyoh tells him, "I came here because your friends form the police asked me about Mischa. I assume you have told them."

"No," Will says. "I wouldn't," he adds somewhat desperately, feeling the need to defend himself from another accusation of betrayal.

"I can bear my own name in the papers, my picture and my relationship with Hannibal,"Chiyoh adds and Will can't help thinking how strongly he disagrees with her. Not able to bear it at all. "But I cannot let that happen to her."

"Wrong address," Will tells her. "Try Bedelia Du Maurier."

"Are you sending me to kill?" Chiyoh wonders, "or to be killed?"

"You're already a suspect for attempted murder," Will reminds her.

"I never _attempted_ to kill anyone in my life," Chiyoh tells him, another cotton-wooled threat. Soft yet suffocating...

 

~...~...~...~

 

..."Agent Graham," Freddie greets him with a fake charming smile. "Are you here for another palm reading?" 

"Cut the crap, Freddie," Will tells her. "I know what you're doing."

"That's a first," she says. "I doubt it though."

"I know you have a source at the FBI," Will says. "And I can imagine the useless dramatics and the sensational schemes you hatch and feed and the ridiculous fantasies you're planning to put up on TattleCrime."

"Thank you, but I'm not interested in your evaluation, Mr Graham," Freddie says, still mocking with her tone. "If you excuse me, I have a story to break."

"If you're not careful, Freddie, news won't be the only thing you'll be breaking the future," Will tells her. 

"I'm getting used to your threats, Will," Freddie remarks. "They're starting to lack shock value."

"I came to collect the files you got from Miriam Lass," Will tells her. "You can give them to me," he offers, "or I can take them from you." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, but a split second of surprise betrays her lie.

"Hand them over, Freddie," Will demands again.

"I see," she says. "You took it upon yourself to protect his little friend. Too late though, Will. She's going down. And so will you. Sooner or later your name will be in TattleCrime's headlines again. And not in the heroic way. In the 'murder husbands united in jail'-way. I doubt they'll let you see him though," Freddie goes on. "I wonder if that should be considered corporal punishment. With the way you long for him, I can only imagine what you must be going through being separated from him. Not saying, I don't think you deserve it."

"I'm not going into what you deserve, Freddie," Will says. "I'm sure, deep down even you know."

"Let me guess," she starts, tipping her fingernail against her chin as she pretends to think intensely about it. "Does it rhyme with _Hannibalism_?" 

"You're playing with fire," Will warns. 

"I've heard some grotesque stories about Lecter and his sister," Freddie says. "Do you know how well incest stories sell? He's a monster. Not too far fetched to wonder if he loved his little sister so much, he had to eat her to be satisfied."

"You know what else sells well?" Will asks. "Tragedies about auto-erotic asphyxiation gone wrong."

"I'll let Jack Crawford know about your continuous threats," Freddie tells him.

"You think he cares," Will starts, "after all these articles you wrote about his incompetence? You think I still care?" He takes a step forward, causing Freddie to move back instinctively and opening a little space that subsequently enables Will to step inside her apartment. 

"I'm calling the police," Freddie says and Will can tell she's slightly embarrassed by how quick she'd went from over-confident to moderately alarmed. 

"You do that," Will tells her, moving through the room to grab the computer from her desk and a couple of paper stacks that surrounds it. 

"You can't do this," Freddie tries once more. 

"These are confidential," Will reminds her. "Part of an ongoing investigation."

"That laptop is mine," she says, using all her strength to push Will against her shelves, one board striking him so violently where his spine connects to his skull, pain flares up in every single nerve of his body, so sharp and blazing that Will fears he'll either pass out from how much it hurts or will be left with permanent bodily damage. In his panic he clutches to the computer just as desperately as Freddie tries to take it from him. She holds onto it so tightly, yanking it from him with so much force that when Will eventually lets go of it --surrendering to her determination and his own pain-- she stumbles back heavily, knocking over the vase on a sideboard that shatters on the tiles, barely a second before the laptop crashes on the ground and slides under the sofa while Freddie's head hits the wall first and then the floor. In what feels like motions melting into one continuous movement, Will crouches down, retrieves the computer with numb fingers and a head full of bursting pain, takes those a few long steps to the door, follows the hallway of the building until it leads him into the dark of night...

 

~...~...~...~

 

"Will you promise to keep Mischa's story safe?" Chiyoh asks, tearing Will from his memories. "Will you protect her from the humiliation," she adds, more vulnerable than Will has ever seen her. Her hand, the gun, is no less steady though. And Will nods then. Only after another moment of consideration, Chiyoh agrees to lower the weapon.

"Why didn't you come?" Will allows himself to wonder out loud. "He wanted you to find me." 

"What makes you think I wasn't around?" Chiyoh asks. 

"He wanted us to talk," Will says, almost an accusation. Almost a plea. "Be a family." His voice quivers like the needle of his compass before it finds where to align. 

"Hannibal is my family," Chiyoh tells him. "He raised me in a cage, but I am a bird of passage. What he wants is not my concern," she says. "Not anymore."

A fleeting shadow against the window, and when Will concentrates, only unfamiliar silence outside --nature holding its breath-- and then in the reflection of the glass, almost too blurry to recognize, Winston's ear twitching. Slowly, Will lifts his hand, careful not to startle Chiyoh, careful not to stare into the barrel of his gun again, and presses one finger against his bruised lips. 

"Shh," he breathes, eyes focused on the window and the darkness behind as he points Chiyoh to the back door. "We're not alone," he whispers as quietly as humanly possible. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't in the episode but the script contains the moment Hannibal moves on to save Will from Cordell and Mason. It is one of my absolute favorite little scenes.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm back on [tumblr](http://www.werebird.tumblr.com) if you need to find me! Lots of love and a wonderful week to everyone who's reading!


	8. Chapter 8

The Volvo feels darker and quieter than ever as Will turns the mat that covers the floor of its trunk to dig for the plastic bag which he'd stored by the spare tire. 

He peels back the crackling wrapping with gloved hands and settles back in the driver seat before he opens the laptop and turns it on again. The battery light is already blinking in warning, but it's going to be the last time he'll turn it on anyway. 

There was a password but it equally surprised and didn't surprise Will that Freddie could be vain enough yet so careless to use her own name as the only protection of her files. 

Not the only protection.

He's quite sure that damn thing tried to take a picture of him upon entering the wrong code at first, but camera and networking seem to have died when the laptop suffered its first crash in Freddie's apartment. 

The rest of it likely to go out of service for good in a few minutes. 

Two of the three flash drive ports apparently broke too but Will's lucky as the third one connects. 

He copies the only folder of interest for him which was a pain in the ass to find in between all the clutter and false information Freddie had written for her stories about Hannibal. Will's hands shake and the mouse pad struggles to translate the lines of his fingers through the gloves as he opens a random audio file to check if it got restored safely on his USB drive. 

 _"He re-tells me the story of when Jack first came to him,"_  Miriam's voice fills the inside of the car, white noise of the recording blurring her already thinner-than-usual voice.  _"When he first came to him in person,"_  she says, there's rustling and the microphone seems to shift with it, catching her voice from a different angle.  _"Says he was surprised that he came for professional advice,"_  her voice fades a little until she can recover it.  _"And not to find me."_ Will can hear her pain through the poor recording, through the damaged laptop speakers, through past and present. And his hands start to shake anew. _"He_ s _ays Jack would never come to find me. That he'd moved on and had forgotten about me. That he'd found someone else to teach and mentor. But I know he is lying."_

Will coughs, trying to rid himself of the smoke of Hannibal's cruelty that fills his lungs. As if he could breathe the vibrations that Miriam's voice leave in the air, as if he could breathe the hurt in her tone and the uncertainty between her words. 

" _He says he wants to remind him_ ," Miriam goes on and Will can't tell if it's the poor quality of the recording that changes the pitch of her voice again or if it cracked in the moment. " _Says I deserve to be remembered._ "

A few seconds of silence, only whirring and distant shuffling. Then the clicks of heels that make Will's heart race and his lip curl in contempt. 

 _"How do you feel, Miriam?"_ Bedelia asks, her detached tone blows over Will like the freezing December winds. _"Let yourself fall back into the moment. Let your senses embrace their surroundings. Allow those emotions to return. Let them recover what was lost in the haze."_

Deep breaths. Concentration. Fear. 

" _You're safe here, Miriam,_ " Bedelia adds. _"Give yourself over to the memories."_

 _"He's right,"_ Miriam says then. _"How can Jack forget about me? Just like that?"_

 _"What else, Miriam?"_ Bedelia probes. 

 _"He says we have to go somewhere else soon,"_ Miriam recalls, with audible difficulties. _"That I'd have to go somewhere else soon. Not for long, he says. But I don't want to."_

 _"You'd rather stay,"_ Bedelia repeats. _"It's become home?"_ she wonders.

 _"Home is different from this,"_ Miriam tells her. _"We're alone here. I like being here. I don't have to worry. This place exists for itself. Like a boat on open water."_

Hastily, Will cuts the recording off and shuts the laptop down, overwhelmed with his own desire to go home. He pockets the flash drive and grabs the computer and the loose papers from the plastic bag and climbs out the car. 

He's never been here at night, never been here without the fluttering yellow crime scene seal securing the area from unwanted visitors. Legally, places cease to be crime scenes after the investigation is closed, but Will thinks about those places that remain crime scenes for all eternity. How the horrible crimes they've witnessed become engraved in the very earth the perpetrators walked on. The very earth victims were buried in. Places of blood and slaughter. Void of humanity. 

Maybe to Jack and Miriam this will forever be one of those places.

Will hauls one of the tanks open and shines his flashlight into the darkness, satisfied to see a pool of rusty water at the bottom, just about a foot deep. He takes another breath and listens to the silence of the traumatized before he dumps laptop and papers inside.

 

* * * * *

 

Alana leads him down on his own, not out of friendly courtesy but because she gave Will exactly fifteen minutes to finish his conversation with Hannibal for good. 

"If you're not out here in time, I'll drag you out myself," she tells him and Will knows by the look on her face that she's serious. 

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, but the truth is he's not even wearing a watch to count down the minutes. 

"This is insane," Alana comments in regard to her own choices. "I guess sanity was nothing more than an illusion each of us tried to keep for as long as possible."

"Maybe we should start believing in situational insanity," Will remarks. 

"I don't think it'll hold up in Jack's court," she argues. "Or any court for that matter."

"Are you going to tell him?" Will asks.

"Can you imagine a world in which I wouldn't?" Alana argues.

"How come you haven't yet?” Will wonders.

"He's still leading the search for Chiyoh. For Miriam," Alana tells him. "I doubt he'll have an ear for it."

"For me," Will corrects.

"It's not too late, Will," she offers. "Not too late to rebuild friendships."

"When you tell him," Will just says, "ask Bedelia for advice on how to twist your ways out of these situations."

"Is that what you think I'm trying to do?" Alana asks. "What if I'm doing this for you? With no intention of ridding myself of any responsibility." 

"That would make you even more insane," Will says. 

"By far not the craziest thing I've done out of love," Alana says. "Maybe the craziest thing we did for each other," she adds, a little sadder than before. 

"Not even that, Alana," Will tells her, finger itching with the urge to reach out for her, tip up her chin. As if that could solve what happened between them. He tries a smile, knowing it'll feel unfamiliar at best. If not utterly wrong. 

"Better not be late," she says with a nod towards Hannibal's cell. 

"Late to arrive or return?" Will asks. 

"I'd say neither," she tells him. "But knowing you, return is uncertain at best."

"You're the keeper of the damned, Alana," Will says. "I'll always return to you."

 

* * * * *

 

When Will enters the visitor's area this time, a thick fog looms just outside the ceiling windows. He thinks he can hear raindrops splashing faintly on the glass high above, but it might just be his mind playing tricks on him. It might just be the sound of his heart racing in anger and despair, the sound of time ticking down, the sound of ghosts tapping on locked doors of his mind palace.

Theirs.

Hannibal watches him with sharp eyes, but Will senses an unusual exhaustion around Hannibal's emotional state.

The burden of pending forgiveness. Pending acceptance of delicate matters.

Will throws his palm against the glass with all the force he's suppressed over the past days, feeling its vibrations echo in his bones and the stinging pain on his skin before he lays his forehead on the back of his hand and gives way to some long pressing tears of frustration. 

"The things," Will starts, his voice only a shadow against the screen. "The things I do for you," he tells him, but Hannibal won't react to it. He hadn't flinched over Will's violent outburst, hadn't moved an inch or said a word. "Have done for you."

An illusion of movement, maybe a shadow of an intention, surpassing the mind and materializing in the reality. Enough for Will to look up, letting his eyes follow what they want to see so badly.

But Hannibal remains, stoic and stiff -- stiffer than usual -- in the same space he's occupied since Will walked through the door.

"I have reached the point of no return," Will tells him. "We have."

"Has there ever been a point of return, Will?" Hannibal asks uncomfortably calm.

"Not for a while," Will admits.

"Then this reaction seems to be a bit unreasonable," Hannibal reminds him.

"Or overdue," Will offers with a tang of defeat.

"You've got me curious, Will. What have you done for me?" Hannibal asks, only now getting interested in the conversation. "What will you do?"

"You were right," Will just says, looking up to see Hannibal moving closer. Swift yet without rush. Slotting in place just before him.  
"I'm about to get fired," Will says and throws another frustrating punch against the screen. "And here I was thinking this cell could never hold you," Will adds and Hannibal just raises his eyebrows at the randomness of his remark. "But now," Will starts to elaborate, "I understand now why you are here. And this inaction suits you seamlessly."

"Your panic has you fallen back into the comfort of definite dualisms," Hannibal argues. "Can anyone truly remain inactive?"

"They were afraid you'd seek someone on the outside. Acting on your behalf," Will tells him. "But all you had to do was wait. For me to put on your shoes and walk down your path," he adds, recalling Bedelia's words. "You just had to wait long enough."

"You and I are equals, Will," Hannibal says. "We're merely sharing parts of our respective journey. For how long? Neither of us can know."

"I will leave Wolf Trap behind," Will just says, not in the mood for philosophical discussions. "With no chance to look back."

"As it was bound to happen," Hannibal remarks.

"As you made it happen," Will tells him.

"And you," Hannibal adds, rendering Will speechless with the realization of the truth behind his words.

"Not out of panic," Will says, suddenly feeling defensive. "I'm not leaving in panic."

"Of course not," Hannibal agrees. "Not an assumption that has crossed my mind."

"Was panic the hand you wrote your last letter with?" Will wonders.

"Panic was only a silent spectator," Hannibal corrects him.

"Is that how panic feels for Hannibal Lecter?" Will asks. "Silent?"

"A deafening sensation," Hannibal tells him. "It prevents us from thinking logically."

"I haven't been thinking logically since I met you," Will says, a far too casual admission for his own liking.

"You underestimate your reason, Will," Hannibal says. "Once again Jack's perceptions have taken control over the way you see yourself. Your empathy is only one asset. Not the defining part of your character."

"I doubt you would have taken interest in me if it wasn't for my empathy," Will argues.

"I was always more interested in your own perspective, Will," Hannibal tells him. "Far more than I was interested in those you could assume. As I anticipated, your empathy had been more of an obstacle in the course of our relationship," he adds. "Don't you agree?"

"My empathy or your lack of the same?" Will suggests instead.

"You and I both know, I am, whether fortunately or not, capable of empathy," Hannibal reminds him.

"It just has no place at the table," Will recalls.

"We cannot choose to feel empathy," Hannibal says. "You know that better than anyone else. Compassion however," Hannibal starts and then pauses to consider Will for a moment. "Have you abandoned compassion yet, Will?" he asks.

"There was no need for that," Will admits, feeling colder than usual, older and more numb. "I am void of compassion."

"Can this moment be true?" Hannibal asks. "For I am filled with compassion for you. For your panic."

"Relieve me of it then," Will demands.

"You panic or your responsibility?" Hannibal asks and Will falls silent over the question. "Have I triggered an ugly realization, Will?" Hannibal wonders, drizzling salt over the wounds.

"Bedelia says you were curious about her disengagement. Her unfazed rejection of response," Will tells him. "Rejection of responsibility."

"Bedelia considers herself a mere witness of this world," Hannibal says. "But her rejection of participation has consequences. Every choice has. Even the choice not to choose."

"The butterfly effect," Will comments.

"I was curious about her rejection of social bonds," Hannibal admits.

"You?” Will scoffs.

"We're both familiar with loneliness, Will," Hannibal goes on, ignoring the attempt to taunt. "But are we familiar with solitude? Have we not despised our isolation. Longed for the other our whole lives?"

"Could I have longed for you and feared you all the same?” Will asks.

"How can we not fear the things that will change us forever," Hannibal says. "I fear your influence as much as you fear mine."

"Fear and excitation," Will recalls. "Aren't they the same?"

"Would you believe me, if I said I was eagerly awaiting your influence?" Hannibal asks.

"You would deny my influence," Will just says. "As you have before."

"Being unaware isn't the same as being in denial," Hannibal argues.

"Can we long for what we're not aware of?" Will asks.

"Conscious longing is desire, Will," Hannibal states. "We all start our self-discovery in obliviousness."

"Preconsciousness," Will remembers.

"You've been spending too much time with Bedelia, Will," Hannibal says. "I can't say I'm too fond of that thought."

"Part of my self-discovery," Will comments.

"All self-discovery is actually self-realization," Hannibal tells him. "The answers can only be found within."

"What are your desires, Dr. Lecter?” Will wonders. "What answers lie within you?"

"Jack will try to take you from me, Will," Hannibal says. "I'm curious if you'll let that happen."

"What makes you think I wouldn't?" Will asks.

"For one, the fact that you are here," Hannibal offers. "I don't think Jack is aware."

"Yet," Will just says. "And two?”

"You wouldn't let me," Hannibal reminds him.

"I came to Florence not for your company," Will tells him.

"No?" Hannibal asks.

"I came to rid myself of it," Will says. "For good."

"Humans rid themselves of the things they don't understand," Hannibal comments.

"But I understand you," Will argues. "I understand you too well."

"You came to Italy to exercise said understanding," Hannibal says. "Not rid yourself of it. You came to relish in it."

"Is that why you wanted to kill me?" Will asks. "Relish in your understanding of me?"

"Could I long for your violence and fear it all the same?" Hannibal asks, quoting Will's words back at him.

"It would have changed you forever," Will says, voice cold and detached. "But would you consciously desire my violence?" he wonders. "Do you feel suicidal, Doctor?”

"The contrary," Hannibal tells him. "Your company makes me feel a deeper appreciation for life. As does the presence of your violence."

"Mortality," Will remarks. "Chases us down the corridor of life."

"You've chased me," Hannibal reminds him.

"We've chased each other," Will argues. "Here we are now. Breathless. With a bursting heart. Maybe right on its edge again."

"The place of no return," Hannibal recalls. "How does mortality makes you feel, Will? The presence of my violence?"

"Have you ever had a dish, Dr. Lecter," Will wonders, "that was merely tasty on paper? Imagination and fantasy playing with your mind? With your knowledge that it cannot actually be that good. Defying not only reason but experience? Because you've ordered that same dish before." Will takes a moment, gathering up some confidence. "And it was gruesome."

"Even I have tried a vegan recipe once," Hannibal says with a delighted smirk as he ridicules the metaphor. "Or even twice." He looks at Will for a drawing second before his face turns more serious. "Even my imagination betrays me at times. But it does not make me doubt my actions."

"How?" Will asks. 

"Taste is not permanent, Will," Hannibal reminds him. "It evolves. A second try may as well be worth it. Even a third."

"Doing the same thing, expecting different results," Will remarks. "Insanity by Einstein's definition."

"He was a smart man, wasn't he?" Hannibal says. "Are you familiar with quantum tunneling, Will?"

"I assume this is rhetorical," Will comments not quite under his breath. 

"According to quantum mechanics you may pass through a wall if you try often enough," Hannibal tells him.

"And how often would I have to try?" Will wonders. 

"You'll be dead before you'll succeed," Hannibal says unfazed. "The universe will be dead before you succeed."

"And you'd still recommend me to try, Doctor?" Will wonders. "I'd still call this insanity."

"A zero probability does not forbid occurrence," Hannibal argues. 

"So you want me to bet on zero probability?" Will asks.

"I want you to look beyond what you consider possible," Hannibal admits. "I want you to redistribute limitations. It's what I've always wanted for you."

"I have done so," Will says, jaw tight as he curls his finger against the glass, pressing tentatively. "Looks like I won't pass through today." He tries to to laugh but his face just grimaces over his desperation. 

"Do you still need me to relieve you of your responsibility, Will?" Hannibal asks, tone almost gentle. 

"Alana says I too often reject agency," Will admits. "A habit I might be about to break."

"I'm curious what your newly found agency will provide you with," Hannibal tells him, a light smile back on his lips. 

"You already know," Will just says, finally managing to pull his hand back. "You have never done this, have you?" he asks absently.

"Done what, Will?" Hannibal wonders.

"Put your hand up here," Will clarifies with a nod to the see-through screen separating them. "Feeling the incarceration. The constraint."

"I am aware of the restrictions," Hannibal says. "I don't need to reassure myself of their existence. Not the same way you just needed to."

"Part of me needs reassurance," Will admits. "Part of me needs to pretend," he adds. "Pretend there is no barrier." Will tentatively places his hand against the glass once more.

"A rather childish need," Hannibal says, body stiff and with a hard face. 

"And you wouldn't humor me, would you, Doctor?" Will asks, but he already feels defeated. Bargaining only for comfort. The comfort that zero probability does not forbid occurrence. 

Silence between them once more. A silence full of immature yearning, the urgency of mortality and the cold breath of damnation. Hannibal takes a step towards him, but Will knows that somewhere else the sand has run through the neck. That their time is up anyway. 

"I will humor you in another life, Will," Hannibal says and Will can't tell if it's the lacking step in their proximity that makes him see a hint of pain in Hannibal's expression or whether it had just not been there before. If maybe Hannibal had forgotten about time until now. Forgotten about loss and separation. Confusing this conversation with one of the many lingering in his mind palace. "When your need arises to pretend there is a barrier, I will humor you and let my hand be restrained by plain air."

Will can sense the hospital coming to life around them, can sense their space crumbling and shrink as Alana calls for the system of authority to be reinstated. Queen of the damned wielding her scepter.

"Listen to me, Hannibal," Will says, somewhat desperately upon the closing orchestra of footsteps on the stairs, rattling keys and hissing voices. Although there never has been a single doubt in his mind whether or not Hannibal was paying him sufficient attention. "Time has come that I return the favor." He swallows, bundles his frustration into his tight nerves as he forces himself to lift his head once more. _Look up_ , he tells himself in his head. And it's followed by a silent thought. A silent prayer. Not pure enough to put into words. Not intended to be released into the world. _Look up at me_ , he thinks, needing Hannibal to face him back. "I want you to know where you can find me. Where you can always find me," Will says, bravery not coming from the strength of his bones but the tight tissue of his heart. "In this life or another," Will goes on as their eyes meet through distance and the glass. Intense and focused.  _Thank you,_ Will thinks _._  "I want you to know where you can find me."

"Where is that, Will?" Hannibal asks, his voice hauntingly clear in the face of their separation and Will's resurfacing panic.

"Where I followed my father to" Will says, face itching with a twitch yet it's completely numb. As if it wasn't his own. It doesn't feel like his own. He briefly wonders if that's how Mason felt before he fed his face to Will's dogs. "That's where," he adds before the guards push through the door, before large hands are slapped on his shoulders and wrap round his biceps. Before he's being forced out of the room, eyes on Hannibal, holding contact until they drag him past a corner and slam the door shut between them.

  
   
* * * * *  
 

"William," Chilton calls from the side just as Will lunges for a little sprint to his car, trying to shake the ghost of Hannibal's presence off of him. 

"Taking Freddie's place now, Frederick?" Will asks annoyed. 

"There isn't a place to take," Chilton reminds him. 

"Yet," Will adds, knowing he's not doing himself a favor. 

"I will pretend I didn't hear that," Chilton says and straightens his tie. 

"Why would you?" Will asks. 

"I want to propose an arrangement," Chilton tells him. 

"I thought I made myself clear the last time you came to me with a proposal," Will says. "Not interested, Frederick. Not ever."

"I'm looking for security," Chilton tells him. "Someone able to protect me. Since Jack Crawford won't."

"Do you really think I could do that," Will says on his way to walk by him. He halts then and turns to correct himself. "Do you really think I would _want_ that?"

"I may have something of interest to you," Chilton says.

"Whatever you have," Will tells him, "I don't want it."

"I have access to Freddie's research," Chilton says. 

"Research?" Will asks, laughing at the choice of word.

"She left copies with me," Chilton tells him, way too arrogantly for Will's taste. "I think she'll get over if I, lets say, lose her notes on you."

"Try losing all her files," Will just says.

"Now you're just getting cocky," Chilton tells him.

"Good luck being the target of the most steady-handed sniper the FBI has ever come across, Frederick," Will says and turns to leave again.

"Wait," Chilton calls after him. "William," he tries, catching up with quick steps. "Will."

"I want it all, Chilton," Will tells him. "Every last paper, every last file."

"Why?" Chilton asks, fleeting eyes doing nothing to hide his nervousness.

"I may be persuaded to protect you," Will says, looking past Chilton into the distance. "But I won't protect her. Won't ever protect what you call her _work_."

A long moment of consideration. Deliberation. Internal struggle. "I'll get them to you," Chilton says then, straightening his collar and walks off without another word.

 

* * * * * 

 

"Agent Graham," Bedelia says, greeting him with a fake smile. Will can see the annoyance in her eyes though. 

"No need for formalities, Bedelia," Will tells her. "I don't think I'll be wearing this badge much longer."

"Did you come here for another session?" she asks. 

"Another session?" Will repeats, contemplating. "Do you do sessions that don't further any of your personal agendas?"

"As you know," Bedelia says. "I have retired a long time ago. All my sessions are selfless."

"Was Hannibal your last patient?" Will asks.

"You were my last patient," Bedelia reminds him. 

"I was never your patient, Bedelia," Will objects. "I was desperate."

"Have you found the realization you were looking for?" she asks. "Or have you come to ask me about my relationship with Hannibal once more?"

"Oh, I have found _something_ ," Will tells her. 

"And what would that be?" Bedelia wonders. 

"You're a good actress," Will says. "So is Miriam."

"If this visit has no purpose, I'd appreciate it, if you'd leave, Agent Graham," Bedelia tells him.

"Does Jack know she's been seeing you?" Will asks. 

"I have nothing to say to you," she just says. 

"What are you after, Bedelia?" Will presses.

"I'd kindly ask you to leave now, Will," she tells him.

"Why?" Will asks and sits down to emphasize his intention of doing the opposite of what he was requested to do. "We've just started this session, Dr. Du Maurier," he adds. "Time's not up yet."

"You look as smug as he would," Bedelia remarks. "I figured I should have thanked him for his warning."

"Warning?" Will repeats.

"He did warn me you'd come for me after all," Bedelia clarifies. "On his behalf. Didn't he?"

"He was merely alerting you to a possibility," Will corrects her. 

"And yet here you are," she says.

"Do you think that's what I'm here for, Bedelia?" Will wonders, words and voice a little too far onto the mocking side.

"What are you here for?" she asks, finally sitting down opposite of him. Calmly and gracefully as ever. If her ankles feel stiff and her knees feel mellow she doesn't allow Will to notice.

"I think it's time we put the cards on the table," Will says, matching her quiet tone.

"Do you have something to confess?" Bedelia asks, hiding behind professionalism.

"Yes," Will says, letting each letter roll off his tongue slowly.

"I've been contacted by Jack Crawford," Bedelia says almost cautiously. "He told me Miriam Lass has gone missing. Shortly after Freddie Lounds has been attacked. Is either the reason you are here?"

"Now why would you ask that?" Will questions.

"Have you granted Hannibal his favor?" she wonders. "Or are you about to?"

"Did Miriam ask you to be her therapist?” Will asks, ignoring Bedelia's inquiry. "Or did Jack suggest this little arrangement?"

"I won't answer your questions, Will," she tells him. "That would be professional misconduct. I've sworn an oath on confidentiality after all."

"Confidentiality," Will starts, "secrecy," he muses. "Is there a difference?"

"I was not hired by the FBI," Bedelia admits then.

"You have questionable credentials, Bedelia," Will says. "No one in their right mind would hire you."

A twitch in the corner of Bedelia's lips. And then a condescending smile.

"Assuming that was true," she says, amusement settling in her words. "Why would anyone hire _you_?" she asks then, setting Will's mind in motion.

"You're toxic, Bedelia," Will tells her, knowing it's a poor coping mechanism at best and probably his worst habit to insult her in times of inner distress. "What do you want with Miriam's memories?"

"Insurance," Bedelia says.

"Bullshit," Will interjects. "You know he'll cook and eat you one day, Bedelia. And no knowledge or insurance you could gather is going to stop him from doing that."

"Nature provides us with a simple rule," Bedelia says. "Fight or flight," she reminds him. "I have tried running from him."

"You haven't," Will recalls. "You've returned into his waiting arms the first chance you got," he reminds her angrily. "Does Miriam know you were just using her to acquire information?"

"I can't stop him from eating me," she agrees. "Only if I eat him first." Bedelia leans back into the chair, not breaking eye contact. "Figuratively, of course," she adds.

"Attempting to learn from the master?" Will asks.

"I have developed more interest in the student," Bedelia says, giving nothing away.

"Me?" Will wonders, not expecting the laugh that follows out of Bedelia's mouth.

"You were merely the substitute teacher," she tells him. "A little odd," she muses. "With his thoughts all over the place. Temporary. I've told you before, Mr. Graham, I prefer stability."

"Chiyoh," it dawns on Will.

"A small encounter in Florence," Bedelia recalls. "A spark of mutual curiosity."

"A different kind of insurance," Will says.

"You choose to be as close as possible to Hannibal as you believe it offers you some kind of safety. Or enables you to protect others from harm," Bedelia guesses. "I choose the company of those who may be his match."

"Chiyoh would never choose your company, Bedelia," Will argues. "Her loyalty to Hannibal is not out of fear."

"She's outgrown her loyalty," Bedelia tells him. "I wonder if you will."

"I don't believe you," Will says. 

"Can you be sure of either opinion?" Bedelia wonders. "Yours? Mine?"

"Can you be?" Will asks back. 

"I have trust in my perception. Did you recover yours?" Bedelia argues.

"You think she'll kill him for you?" Will wonders. 

"I believe she will keep him from killing me," Bedelia tells him. 

"What reason would she have?" Will asks.

"Compassion," Bedelia just says. 

"For you?" Will asks, scoffing at the idea.

"Her and I have shared the same experience," Bedelia says. "We have acquired the same knowledge."

"What do you know?" Will asks, nervousness creeping across his neck.

"Everything," Bedelia just says.

"Good actors tend to be the best liars," Will comments. "I still do not believe you."

"I know your favor has been in vain," Bedelia tells him, not batting an eye. "I know that you killed Miriam Lass"...

 

~...~...~...~

 

......A fleeting shadow against the window, and when Will concentrates, only unfamiliar silence outside --nature holding its breath-- and then in the reflection of the glass, almost too blurry to recognize, Winston's ear twitching. Slowly, Will lifts his hand, careful not to startle Chiyoh, careful not to stare into the barrel of his gun again, and presses one finger against his bruised lips.

"Shh," he breathes, eyes focused on the window and the darkness behind as he points Chiyoh to the back door. "We're not alone," he whispers as quietly as humanly possible. He holds out his palm, assuming Chiyoh would hand his weapon over, but she holds onto it in silence. Just tilts her head, listening to their surroundings attentively as Will is sure Hannibal once taught her to.

"I should go," Chiyoh tells him. Quiet and calm. So calm it infuriates Will. 

"Go where?" he hisses.

"I may be under investigation, but my hands are clean," she just says. "If our company outside is making you feel agitated, then it doesn't concern me either."

"Whatever you deem irrelevant," Will tells her, "will soon be of relevance again."

A long moment passes as they stare at each other full of suspicion and distrust. 

"It's already set in motion," Will adds in a whisper. 

"There has never been a time where things needed to be set in motion," Chiyoh tells him. "This world does not know stagnation. Nor peace."

"We're the same Chiyoh," Will tries to remind her. "We're named characters in his book. Beyond his influence. He's called to us, but we have not only been listening. We answered. We're beyond innocence now."

"Our guilt is not the same," she says. "I act upon necessity. You-," she starts, taking a step back. Bringing distance between them. "I have told you before, you have a taste for it now."

"Can't throw me off a train this time," Will tells her. 

"We have to part ways nonetheless," she says with a small smile. Almost sad. Her goodbye.

She holds his gaze as she fires his gun, bullet hitting the roof over the pile of dogs on the floor who jump in panic and cause a cacophony of barks, whimpers and pacing paws as Chiyoh bolts into the night and Miriam through the back door, weapon in hand, ready to shoot.

In the chaos of the scared up pack it takes Will only two skilled tricks to disarm her, and another calculated action to knock her unconscious with her own weapon. 

For Chiyoh, Will tells himself. For Mischa. 

For Hannibal...

~...~...~...~

"My favor?" Will asks, leaving the accusation hanging.

"Did Hannibal not ask you to protect his own?" she asks. "Did he not send you here?"

"Did Chiyoh tell you that?" Will wonders. 

"She told me that your conversation was interrupted by Ms. Lass," Bedelia says. 

"Did Chiyoh tell you why she came to me in the first place?" Will asks her. "It was her who requested I protect Hannibal's own."

"And did you?" Bedelia asks then. 

"I came here to protect _my_ own," Will corrects her.

"And how are you planning to do that?" Bedelia wonders.

"I'm going to kill you," Will just says. "Or more precisely, Miriam Lass is going to," he adds and slowly pulls a gun from the pocket of his jacket. Similar to his own -- the same model -- but licensed under a different name entirely.

"What reason would she have?" Bedelia asks, mirroring Will's question from before.

"What reason do the traumatize need?" Will argues, pointing the weapon at her.

"You've truly gone insane," Bedelia says, bringing herself to stand and Will allows it. Follows her movement.

"There's evidence against you," Bedelia tries.

"Not for long," Will just says.

"You are a fool if you didn't think I was expecting you to convince yourself of Hannibal's motives. To make them your own," she tells him. "And a fool if you didn't think everyone was expecting you to do just that."

"We all have to evolve, Bedelia," Will just says. "Life forces us to."

"Life forces us merely to do one thing," Bedelia says, neither taking a step forward nor back. "To die."

"The rejection of weakness," Will reminds her. "Every bit as natural."

"Put your gun down, Will." Alana's voice sounds awfully distorted as Will's brain catches up with how misplaced it feels. "Now!" she calls, her own gun in hand as she slowly makes her way through the hallway, the door to Bedelia's apartment open wide behind her. Will considers the exit path. A quick sprint, a hard nudge. Shoving Alana out of the way. Then he dismisses the idea. Alana had enough time to become an excellent shooter herself. 

"You're aiming for the wrong person, Alana," Will just says. "Bedelia's been messing us," he tells her. "Again."

"Don't make me shoot you, Will," Alana warns. "Put your gun down."

"Hannibal's not the one giving Chiyoh orders," Will says. "It's her. She's been having sessions with Miriam," he goes on. "Which Miriam recorded. And then passed on to Freddie. When Bedelia found out, her and Chiyoh conspired to get rid of Freddie first. Then Miriam."

"Why would I do that?" Bedelia asks, guarding her stance and space like an immovable statue.

"Mischa," Will just says.

"Mischa?" Bedelia repeats, playing the same card of innocence as Will. "Hannibal's sister?" she clarifies.

"Did Hannibal talk about her? Did he tell Miriam about her? Did she remind him of Mischa too?” Will presses. "You wanted to keep her story to yourself. For insurance. And Chiyoh wanted to keep her story out of loyalty. But Miriam had already told Jack. Told Freddie. Told you, Alana."

"I have never heard Miriam mention her name," Bedelia claims.

"If I have to ask you to put your weapon down for a third time, it'll be the last, Will," Alana just says.

"You don't believe me," Will realizes. "And you wouldn't hire me," he says, more to himself now. "No one in their right mind would."

"Gun down, Will," Alana pleads.

"Unless I'm the one you're suspecting," Will concludes. "So you set up a trap," he goes on. "You. Jack. Miriam." Will holds up a hand, leaving the gun unsupported in the other.

"We've learned from the best," Alana tells him. "We wanted Hannibal, we had to bait him."

"And I was the bait," Will recalls. 

"And if we wanted you, we had to do the same," she says. "We had to pick the right bait."

"Hannibal," Will breathes. 

"When Hannibal stirs," Alana says, "how could we not suspect you? When Freddie Lounds is attacked?"

 "She was fine when I saw her," Will tells Alana.

"You've said this before," Alana reminds him. "History repeating itself."

"Only in your betrayal, Alana," Will remarks. "I never hurt Abigail despite what you assumed and I didn't hurt Freddie when you believed I had killed her the first time around."

"When you made me believe you killed her," she says angrily. 

"Made Hannibal believe I killed her," Will corrects. 

"You dedicated Freddie's death to him once," she goes on. "A courtship in corpses. Why shouldn't I assume you tried to do it again? Maybe love is what drives you after all, Will. Maybe it's something else entirely," Alana tells him, each word a small accusation.  

"It's not me, Alana," Will says. "It's her," he says with a resenting nod towards Bedelia. 

"Hannibal was right about one thing," Alana says, mirroring what Bedelia said to Will before. "You would try to finish what he started. I knew it. And Jack knew it."

"Jack said he never read that letter," Will tries.

"No letter passes these walls that he or I haven’t read," Alana tells him.

"So you lied to me," Will states.

"Where's Miriam, Will?" Alana asks. 

"I wouldn't know," Will just says. 

"Are you sure, Will?" Bedelia interjects. 

"You seem to know more than I do,” Will remarks, staring at Bedelia. Playing chicken with the queen of tolerating ambiguity. Queen of lies. Of obfuscation."

"Will," Alana says again and Will expects her to ask him once more to place his weapon on the ground. She doesn't. And after she remains silent for another second, Will turns to look at her only to find her staring at his chest with wide, fearful eyes.

There's a small green dot on his shirt, a tiny glowing circle, as innocent as the pointer he uses in class. It's not an ill-aimed laser pointer though, he knows.

Alana knows.

And by the look of Bedelia's arrogant gaze, she knows as well. 

And considering the list of suspects in this case, there is only one sniper around, willing and able to end this conversation on the spot.

 


	9. Chapter 9

It's a haze of pain and dizziness, of physical panic and a mind struggling to stay awake. It's the third time Will has been shot in his life. Three times too often. More times than anyone should ever experience the burning heat, the force of the bullet pushing deeper and deeper into the flesh, the oozing blood, being pumped through the veins over the distress, body not catching up to the program yet.

It stings at first, nerves not realizing what set them on fire. Then surging pain from the open wound. Hot metal ripping through the delicate construction of the human organism. The unforgiving intruder.

Then the edge of blackout, the temptation to give in, surrender to unconsciousness and a probable death. Being emptied of blood and will.

But Will is stubbornly attached to life, holds onto his consciousness with strength he didn't think he'd still have. There is only one way he'll go before the Chesapeake Ripper does -- and that's by Hannibal's own hand.

Alana holds his head and neck as she calls for an ambulance, but Will can't take his eyes off Bedelia as she stands there, an ice sculpture of a Greek goddess. Eris or Até. Chaos and mischief.  
But the only goddess Will swears he'll be praying to from now on is the goddess of vengeance.

It's almost comical how Chiyoh managed to put the bullet right back from where Hannibal had retrieved one of hers earlier in Italy. The scarred tissue keeping Will from losing too much blood. Much less than what he had left in stains on the carpet of the deserted Florence apartment. He briefly wonders if someone moved into it after Mason's men disrupted their last dinner party. If a family moved into where is brain was about to be removed.

At the hospital, they fumble for the bullet with pliers, uncomfortable and intrusive as a speculum, before they wash out the wound with clear liquid that smells like hand sanitizer and the residue of latex gloves. Then they close him up with a dark thread and quick, precise stitches and Will feels a flash of anger over the scar underneath the wound -- Hannibal's design -- the ones that's ruined now.

Alana's still there when he's rolled out of the ER into a small private room. He's still a federal agent after all. Shot on duty. Technically.

"Stay," Will says through dry lips and heavy lidded eyes. "Stay?" he tries again, going for a question this time. "Please," he adds. "Stay."

She gives him small, tight smile before she nods with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. If it wasn't for the tight knot of hair just above her neck, he could have mistaken her for a hallucination of the past.

"I'm staying," she says and lets her fingertips brush over the back of his hand.

"It's not me, Alana," Will tells her, fighting his body over the urge to close his eyes. "I'm not the one you and Jack are looking for."

"Get some rest, Will,” Alana just says. "We can talk about it in the morning."

"Bedelia?" Will asks, feeling his thoughts drifting off already.

"We brought her in for questioning. Don't worry now, Will," she tells him. "Jack's going to find Chiyoh. He's going to find Miriam," she assures him, although Will knows the latter was only assurance for herself.

"You know how in Greek philosophy there are only four stages of life?” Will asks.

"Only you would talk about Greek philosophy after being shot," she says gently.

"We're born hot and wet, spend our best years hot and dry until we turn cold. And then wet again right before we die."

"You're not dying," Alana tells him even softer than before.

"I've never noticed feeling this cold before," Will admits. "I'm starting to feel it now. I think I've burnt out."

"Will," she starts but then falls silent for a long moment. "He wouldn't agree to that," Alana says then, very quietly, barely a whisper and Will takes her assurance into the comfort of his dreams.

Sleep comes easy, courtesy of pain killers and sedatives. Will's limbs feel twice as heavy as usual, but his thoughts feel lighter than cotton candy strings in a late night august wind. He holds onto Alana's hand until his grip fades with his mind. 

 

 * * * * *

 

The ringing phone startles Will before Alana, who had slept with her head pillowed on Will's bedside, pressing against his rip cage. A fact Will can't quite stomach before dawn or a proper coffee.

He already knows what it'll be about. It's time to get going. For him too. To be discharged. Go home and then leave for good.

Alana gives him a confused look before she digs through her purse to answer the call.

"Yeah," she says into the speaker, sounding more than tired.

In between split seconds Alana's state turns from stiffed-neck tired to limb-shaking panic to free-falling resignation. She manages to get a few words out, but Will's too preoccupied to really focus on what she's saying as he watches her fingers desperately seeking something to hold on to. As he watches them finding his own hand for steady ground.

"He's gone," she tells Will after she's hung up, voice thin but spiteful. "He's gone and I have to go."

"Alana," Will starts, trying to warm her cold fingers in his palm.

"I have to go," she says again, tearing herself away, moving from him already. Staggering towards the door. "Jack's picking me up," she mumbles. "We have to find him."

"Alana," Will calls, but it comes out barely a whisper. The moment he finds his voice again she's already out the door.

 

* * * * *

 

When Will gets home, he doesn't waste much time. He feeds his dogs, pats their backs and ruffles their fur for a last time. Lets them lick his fingers and nose against his chin. They'll be happy and safe at Muskrat Farm, Will reminds himself. A dogs paradise without a doubt.

He doesn't need much. A few items of clothing, a toothbrush, a towel. A razor maybe. Painkillers.

"Hello Will."

It's the choice of words not the voice that makes Will jump as Jack appears in his doorway.

"Jack," Will just says in acknowledgement.

"I can’t let you leave, Will," Jack tells him. He sounds exhausted and his tone is laced with an unfamiliar insecurity. "I know you're going to go to him."

"If that was true," Will starts, dumping some fresh bandages into his bag so he'll be able to look after his wound later. He only realized now that he'll have to remove the stitches himself. "Why not let me leave so you can follow me with an entire FBI unit for backup?" he asks.

"My priorities have changed, Will," Jack tells him. "This time I'm going to save you from him instead of sending you to him in order for me to finally catch the Ripper. I'm doing the right thing," he adds. "This time, I'm doing the right thing."

“Even if it’ll cost you your life?” Will asks.

“Even then,” Jack assures him. "I can’t let you go, Will. I won’t let you run after him.”

“And I won’t let you stop me, Jack," Will says, grabbing a jacket from his rack by the door. "I have to go.”

"Why would you do that, Will? For Hannibal?” Jack presses.

"For Alana," Will admits.

"What?" Jack asks stunned.

"A deal has been made, Jack," Will tells him. "For Alana’s life. He agreed to let her live.”

"In exchange for what?" Jack wonders. "His freedom?"

"For one," Will says, refusing to elaborate.

"You bargained with the devil," Jack tells him. "This is going to cost Alana her job. Her career. Do you think it'll be without consequences if Hannibal just walks out of BSHCI?"

"It’s going to save her life," Will corrects him.

"Keeping Hannibal in his cell was saving her life," Jack reminds him.

"It was only a temporary solution," Will says. "We both know that."

"And this isn't?" Jack asks. "How could you let this happen? Make this happen."

"I’m righting my wrongs," Will tells him. "I'm turning back time."

"By allowing a murderer to go free?" Jack asks, still caught in disbelief. 

"We’re all murderers, Jack," Will remarks.

"Not me, Will," Jack argues "Not yet. But if I'll let you leave, I might as well be." 

"I am only the seal to this promise, Jack," Will says. "Alana is going to live. I'll make sure of it.”

"Alana is only going to live if Lecter dies," Jack tells him.

"I will make sure one of these options will apply," Will says.

"You helped him escape to kill him?" Jack asks. "You're smarter than that."

"I wasn't the one letting him out," Will says. "I was being treated in the hospital myself. Alana was there with me."

"It may not have been your hand. But Hannibal Lecter is free. Freddie Lounds was attacked and Chiyoh is nowhere to be found. I'd be damned if you didn't add to this," Jack tells him. "One way or another."

"You set out a trap, Jack," Will reminds him. "Don't blame me for not stepping into it."

"I backed you into a corner," Jack says, not giving Will any time to reply to that. "I was right about you," he insists. "And I'm going to prove it sooner or later."

"Let it go, Jack," Will just says. "For Alana."

"You're running after him to protect her?" Jack asks. "That's your only reason?"

"It seems some things never change," Will just says.

"Your feelings for Alana do not compare to what you unleashed," Jack says. 

"A life for a life," Will remarks. 

"Not one life," Jack argues. "What about your life? Mine? Miriam? The people Hannibal Lecter is going to kill. And don't try to tell me you can stop him from doing that."

"I have to," Will says. "That's why you have to let me go."

"If not?" Jack asks. "Are you going to kill me? If I won't do that? Because I can't do that." 

"Let me go, Jack. She’s waiting for you," Will says then, knowing it'll cause an ice cold shudder through Jack's spine. "She’s waiting for you to find her.”

"Miriam?" Jack asks, face awfully slack as if he'd lost control over his muscles. "Where is she, Will?”

"She’s waiting for you," Will says again. "She’s scared you’ll give up looking for her once again.”

"You took it too far, Will" Jack tells him, anger replacing numbness and shock. "This is the last time we'll see each other and both remain alive. I’ll make Bedelia talk, Will. I'll find Chiyoh and make her talk. I'll personally bring Freddie Lounds back to the land of the living to testify against you. And then I will find you. I will find you and Lecter. And I will kill both of you."

"Fabricating a case?" Will asks.

"I don't need a case," Jack assures him. "I'll be the judge."

"As always," Will says, shouldering his bag. He'll have one chance, and one chance only to get going. Yet, just as much as Jack, Will can't deny himself one last look at his old friend. 

"She's alive Jack," Will reveals. "She's in Virginia." Jack's faith, his trust -- Will's sacrifice to his God. 

"You bastard took her back to that barn," Jack realizes, face set in stone but with tears in his eyes. "I can see who you are now, Will. I can see you as clearly as Lecter does."

"Don’t let her wait," Will tells him.

They continue to stare at each other as Will feels the entire range of Jack's dismay. The horror. The wrath. The shattering of his world. Regret. And his bad conscience.

Will tries to swallow it down, throat tight and dry as he watches Jack close his eyes, fight back tears of frustration, of internal defeat. Watches him give in to tender affection and fragile trust. In to love and responsibility. Not another look, not another word, he just turns to hurry to his car then. Going to get Miriam.

"You can come out now," Will calls with a broken tone. He takes a lure from his shelf, fidgeting with the small object before he slips it into the pocket of his jeans. A small reminder of who he used to be. "He's gone," he says much quieter. Almost to himself.

"You should get going," Margot says, a set of keys dangling from her fingers as she slinks into the room, high heels like hooves but every step as faint and soft as a tip toeing feline. "Car's out in the back," she tells him.

"Thanks for-," Will starts with a glance towards his dogs. A parting pain that causes his words to dry out. "Thank you," he says again, exchanging the car keys in her hand for his house keys. "Are you getting home?"

"Someone's picking me up," Margot says, eyeing him from head to toe. A question lingering on her tongue."Do you think she'll forgive me?" she asks. "If she'll find out?"

Will stops and takes an honest moment to consider his reply. A moment too long for Margot. She hums in agreement even before Will answers with a shrug. "I thought as much," she says eventually.

"Margot-" Will tries, but she waves off his attempt at comforting her.

"What will you say of me, Will?" she asks instead, fingertips brushing against his arm. Playful and flirtatious. A way to hide her fear. Distract from the distress. But she fails. Instead it's the first time Will discovers a vulnerability that he had tried to deny her for too long. A risky soft spot. A heavy connection that adds unbearable weight to the chambers of his heart. 

"I will tell the story you want to be told," Will assures her, getting a glimpse, maybe, of what Bedelia and Hannibal share.

  
* * * * *

  
The water of Lake Erie glisters under the sun, a field of fallen stars dancing on the water while two figures, like long casting shadows move towards each other, guided by a magnetic pull, inexplicable to reason and understanding.

It takes a couple more feet before Will can make out Hannibal's features. Before the blur of poor eyesight and blinding daylight fades. He watches him take deep, calm breaths, chin raised ever so slightly as a soft breeze grazes over his face and hair and the small scar on his cheek. Amusement in his eyes and lips, delicate grace and the silent threat of a sleeping wolf.

Will keeps his hands in pockets. It's neither the place nor the time, and they just aren't the people for a handshake. Nor for a hug.

"I have no hesitations picturing you here," Hannibal says, their intimacy of words and recognition making any greeting obsolete. "As a young boy," he goes on. "A young man. Seeking a way to rid himself of the weight of the world."

"Avoiding the world," Will remarks, recalling his lonely days in between adolescence and adulthood.

"Resenting it?” Hannibal wonders.

"Not entirely," Will admits. "No more than myself. Parts of myself."

"Where do we go from here, Will?" Hannibal asks then, glossing over the insinuation.

"Bedelia is familiar with your hideaways," Will says, facing the water. "We may have suffered betrayal."

"We?” Hannibal asks intrigued.

"It seems Chiyoh has found herself in the capable hands of Dr. Du Maurier," Will tells him. "As has Miriam. Like you said."

"Certainly an interesting turn of events," Hannibal comments.

"Chiyoh thought it appropriate to put another bullet through me," Will says.

"I assume she knew you could take it," Hannibal muses. "Can you forgive her?"

"I've been asked about forgiveness too many times," Will admits. "Isn't there psychological advice?"

"Forgiveness is the foundation of strong ties," Hannibal tells him. "Friendships and family."

"Can you forgive her?" Will asks back. "Could you feel her loyalty slipping through your fingers? Through the bars of the cell? The sand of time?"

"I believe she created a valuable opportunity," Hannibal argues. "A valuable distraction."

"Did she know?" Will wonders. "Did you tell her?"

"Margot may have passed on a message on my behalf," Hannibal tells him.

"What makes you think she isn't on our heels," Will asks. "With a patient rifle. Waiting for us to line up in her sight? If she'll helped this escape," Will adds, "then only to kill you herself."

"I'm sure she is," Hannibal just says. "On our heels," he clarifies.

"And it makes you feel a deeper appreciation for life?" Will assumes.

"She is past wanting to end my life," Hannibal tells him.

"Is Bedelia?" Will asks.

"What Chiyoh is concerned with is balance," Hannibal says. "Her alliance with Bedelia may be a manifestation of said desire."

"You don't seem to hold that against her," Will notices.

"It is the way of the world," Hannibal says.

"The unpredictability of what hatches?" Will recalls.

"As far as I have been concerned, she has yet to disappoint me," Hannibal admits.

"She couldn't have known Alana would stay with me," Will tells him. "Giving Margot a free pass."

"Could she have known that you would ask her to?" Hannibal wonders.

"My father's boat shop has been abandoned ever since he died," Will says somewhat out of the blue, avoiding the question. The answer that lies within.

"Traveling on water has never been a preference for me," Hannibal admits. "Death reaching through the waves. Through the storms."

"Ashes to ashes," Will comments.

"A human body consists of sixty percent water, Will," Hannibal tells him. "I believe we come from water and we shall return to it."

"Do you believe the soul will dissolve in water?" Will wonders. 

"If we drown our souls may merge as they did in life," Hannibal muses. "They may have come from the same body of water in the first place."

"There is no water where our souls came from. And there is no water where they'll go to," Will tells him.

"Water has always inspired humanity to build bridges," Hannibal says. "Seeking connection despite natural separation. I anticipate the inspiration of this place. Where your past and present meet."

"I'm building a boat," Will corrects him. "For separation. Isolation. Not connection."

"A boat?" Hannibal asks. "Or a home?"

Upon Will staring silently into the distance, giving precedence to the rhetorical, Hannibal moves beside him. Shoulder to shoulder they watch the waves.

"You are predestined to work with your hands, Will," Hannibal tells him. "I wonder why you chose academia instead."

"I could say the same for you," Will remarks.

"I have missed your humor, Will," Hannibal admits. "And your terrible aftershave."

Will's lips twitch unwillingly, forming a tentative smile that feels so unfamiliar, Will's first instinct is to hide it from Hannibal's gaze. But when Will turns to take a glance at his strange companion, Hannibal has his eyes closed and his head slightly tilted.

"What do you hear?" Will asks with only the wind and the chatter of distant birds reaching his own ears. And the faint memories of his barking dogs, roaming through the woods.

"Tchaikovsky," Hannibal says with a smile.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

"You're very quiet, Will," Hannibal says, brushing a layer of dust off an old chair. "Not that I doubt the opportunities of enlightenment of silence," he goes on. "You don't seem to be quite comfortable though."

"What do people talk about?" Will asks, mentally cataloging the clutter of the old house. "People like us?" he wonders. "What did you and Bedelia talk about?"

"The past," Hannibal admits. "Peace-preservation. You."

"You wanted to show me Florence," Will says. "Now this is where we are." He doesn't bother to vaguely gesture around. Doesn't bother to look up even. It's not as if Hannibal wasn't aware of their surroundings. "Can Hannibal Lecter even do without the luxuries?"

"I'm not entirely without luxuries," Hannibal remarks. "Was your father a good man, Will?" he asks then, moving on quickly. Leaving no space for silence to stretch. "I assume he worked really hard to provide for you."

"Human forgiveness piling up," Will says, pushing some old furniture out of his way. "Past, present and future. A never ending heap of discarded accusation." He looks up briefly, a glance towards Hannibal, as if to assure himself he hasn't left. "I wonder if it wouldn't be merely a barrow if it wasn't for the errors of fathers."

"We're generous in forgiving the transgressions of our parents," Hannibal reminds him. "We seldom offer the same generosity towards the transgression of lovers."

"Families breed tragedies," Will says then, ignoring the pain that prompted his conclusion. "Then we seek consolation in romance. Shelter from the sorrow and anguish. From the disorientation of brutally amputated roots. We try to rebuild, but you cannot replant trees that been cut."

"You're not a tree, Will," Hannibal tells him as flatly as if metaphors didn't exist. As if they were still in therapy and Will did indeed believe himself to be a tree. 

"And your transgressions weren't those of a lover," Will says, knowing it'll cut a nerve.

"Maybe not," Hannibal contemplates. "Maybe all hurt is eventually the same. Whether from fathers, friends or lovers. There is no shame in feeling the stab of a stranger as deeply as the betrayal of a friend. Pain is indifferent to status."

"Vulnerability is not indifferent to status," Will argues. "Defenses are not indifferent to status."

"Vulnerability is a concept of the erotic," Hannibal says. There is a shrug hiding in his shoulders, but he keeps them steady as Will waits him out. Waits him out to move or expand on his words.

But nothing happens.  

"Is that a psychological analysis?" Will asks. "Or just a philosophical stance."

"Vulnerability is a highly sensual and self-reflective experience," Hannibal tells him. "It is inextricably connected to the fantasy of omission. The fantasy of not being taken advantage of. Of not being violated. Is there a greater satisfaction of baring oneself to another," he goes on. "And being left intact?" 

"I wouldn't know," Will reminds him bitterly. 

"We have talked about the intimacy of death," Hannibal says. 

"The intimacy of killing," Will corrects him. 

"We have not talked about the intimacy of threat," Hannibal goes on as if Will had never interrupted him. "The intimacy. The sensuality. The communication that vulnerability holds."

"What kind of communication is that?" Will wonders. "A different language? Or just another dialect of violence?"

"You've pointed a gun at me more than once, Will," Hannibal recalls. "Do you remember the tension? Our nerves and senses so attuned to the other. Every blink of the lid, every twitch of the lips. The sweat on the tip of your finger caressing the trigger of your gun. I remember the fine squeal, almost inaudible, as it slid along its curve. I remember the smell of your anticipation. And the terror over what you knew you were capable of. I was all yours, Will."

"Not as much as I was all yours," Will says. Hannibal raises his brows for a split second in surprise, but Will ignores it. "Even in the eye of death you have not been as vulnerable as me. When you framed me for any acts of the Chesapeake Ripper. When I was losing time and reality. Losing sanity. Go on," he urges. "How was it? The breath of relief after being left intact? That first breath after what would have been the last?"

Hannibal looks at him for a long time. Not in his usual concentration of consideration. Of contemplation. He just looks at Will. At his anger. "I imagine it was a sensation close to the extricating brush of hands after a night of auspicious glances and flirtatious exchanges. As liberating as a kiss after the torturous tease of lingering proximity."

"I envy you of that breath," Will says. 

"I don't think I have to remind you that my vulnerability has suffered its own betrayal. Your betrayal. The shattering of a fantasy," Hannibal tells him.

"Then neither of us has had the privilege of experiencing the sensuality of vulnerability," Will concludes. "Or only after the trauma of exploitation. Of trust violation. We have exposed ourselves only to rejection."

"You deny my transgression the quality of a lover's flaw," Hannibal starts, "what about your vulnerability, Will?" he wonders. "How much do we have to bare to the other for us to step into that territory." 

"Lovers who have never touched each other," Will scoffs. 

"There are different ways to be touched," Hannibal tells him.

"I am tired of semantics, Hannibal," Will says, feeling the weight of his name on his own tongue. 

"We have touched each other in ways far more intimately than what is perceived within the realms of healthy relationships," Hannibal reminds him.

"Or healthy in the general sense of assuming one wants to remain alive," Will remarks dryly. 

"You and I have different standards of what being alive means," Hannibal tells him. "Of what remaining alive means." 

"We have different standards in healthy relationships as well," Will adds. 

"Not standards, Will," Hannibal says gently. "Different limits." He takes a step towards him. So slow that it makes him look unusually heavy, completely unlike that swift creature that glides through the air with elegance and grace always. 

"We took each other so far, rearranged the limits over and over," Will starts, "there's no one else left for us. Just the other," he finishes on a whisper, remembering the conversation he had with Alana. 

"Does that frighten you?" Hannibal wonders. "Or does that calm you?"

"Why would you ask that?" Will asks. There's nervousness ticking just the tip of his fingers, the echo of the trigger, the intimacy of vulnerability. 

"Because it does not frighten me," Hannibal admits. 

"Of course not," Will remarks absently, because his mind is preoccupied with just another step Hannibal takes towards him. The distance between them shrinking. 

"I have as much reason to find your company unsettling as you. Don't I, Will? I have made sacrifices for you," Hannibal says. He looks broader, still wearing his jacket. Looks older, now that Will can study his face. Yet, it's the marks of practicability, of past detainment, the marks of the fading system that gather Wills attention. The short hair with its gray edges. And the light shadow around his jaw, evidence of no opportunity to shave just yet. It's less Baltimore psychiatrist and more --

\-- more Will. 

"We sacrifice until we have nothing left," Will tells him. "I have nothing left."

"I promised you another life, Will," Hannibal reminds him. "Isn't that why you're here? To embark on it?" 

"I'm here for Alana," Will deflects. 

"We are above making up reasons to see each other, Will," Hannibal says, steering them back effortlessly. "Above needing reasons to be with each other." His arms looks heavy -- black sweater under the dark jacket -- as he lifts it slowly. It seems as stiff as a puppet's limb, being pulled by a string on its joint. Elbow above wrist. Will watches the scene, floating above his own body. Watches Hannibal gather all his strength, lifting his hand slowly, fingers craving to brush over Will's cheek.

He can tell.

He longs for it just the same.  

"No," Will breathes, barely whisper. He feels as thin as a tracing paper. His bones, his muscles, his skin. And he's convinced he'll tear at the touch. Catch fire, ignite and burn to the ground. He's convinced he'll crumble, he'll soften, he'll fold. "You promised me a barrier when I needed one," he says just as quietly. "I need it now."

"Sooner that I anticipated," Hannibal says, not moving closer, but letting his hand linger. Lets Will linger in the vulnerability of his unharmed wishes. The innocence of being left untouched. Of being left intact. 

"You are capable of gentle touches," Will recalls, concerned not to lose his voice. He feels it on his skin, the echoes of Hannibal's touches, their comfort, their embrace. It craves him to shake them off. "It's confusing to me," he says somewhat more confident yet with little added volume. "I don't understand."

"Inconvenient?" Hannibal asks, retracting his hand slowly and letting it fall to the side of his thigh. No need for him to busy his hands to conceal nervousness. Not him. Not Hannibal Lecter. 

"Did you really think this was how it would go?" Will asks. "Did you think we were going to pretend? A happy couple? Like you and Bedelia? Was that constellation fueled by the erotic?"

"It wasn't fueled by the bareness of vulnerabilities," Hannibal admits. 

"I believe she would object to that," Will says. 

"I assume she would." Hannibal lets the thought play out in his mind for a moment. "It's what her audience expects, isn't it?"

"I assume it would," Will agrees. "It would be appalled if she would admit to attraction."

"Are you attracted to me, Will?" Hannibal asks then, his face annoyingly calm as Will's heart starts to race. 

"I believe it was Margot who said: It's not about proclivities, it's about trust." Will quotes her. "Emotional security," he muses. 

"You have come this far," Hannibal starts. "Only to reject my touch?"

"Human contact is so foreign to me, seems so far away," Will admits, "that I only recall the touch of knifes and bullets." He's tempted to move forward, to offer something. Anything. But he moves back instead. "I have been careless at first," he adds. "With what I gave you. And then I have been indifferent to what you took. And somewhere in between I may even have been a victim. Have been helpless about what you stole with your manipulations. Or violence. We can talk about attraction. We can talk about vulnerabilities. About emotions. And romance. About physically expressing what cannot be said out loud." Will turns, giving in to the temptation to retreat. "There are things I will always feel hesitant to share with you. Things I hold back and guard from you out of spite. And it's of no relevance to me anymore, if I was once curious of these things in return. Their value only remains as I keep them from you."  

Hannibal considers him for a slow thick moment that stretches obscenely like gum between them.

"I appreciate your honesty, Will," he says then. "Defiance is a strong motivator. Arguably the one characteristic parents fear most in their children's development. It's when parents feel most inclined to reprise their role as chastiser," Hannibal adds. "Reclaim authority."

"Should I worry that you're inclined to do the same?" Will asks. "In order to come to terms with my spite?"

"Do you know the difference between a matador and a torero, Will?" Hannibal asks. "The torero only becomes the matador as he kills the bull," he reveals without waiting for Will to reply. "The final thrust of the sword is to be done perfectly in order to pierce through the heart and ensure immediate death. It is an art in itself. An art that I am not without admiration for."

"And I assume I am the bull in the this scenario?" Will wonders.

"If you were the bull, your brilliance and magnificence would be unprecedented," Hannibal tells him. "Elevating the torero's performance to a previously unknown splendor."

"Isn't a torero's honor bound to his becoming of a matador?" Will asks. "Bound to my defeat?"

"In its origin of Mesopotamian tales, after hours and hours of excruciating battle, the fight turned into a marvelous, luring dance," Hannibal says. 

"Did it still end with a sword between the bull's shoulder blades?" Will wonders.

"Admittedly, yes," Hannibal yields. "The bull was sent by the gods as punishment for rejection of the sexual advances made by the goddess Ishtar."

"And here I was thinking I was the bull and you were the matador," Will tells him. "Am I the torero? Fighting whatever retribution you'll send my way? For rejecting you?" 

"I can assure you, Will," Hannibal says," that you are the torero." He pauses for only a heart beat. "And that you have mastered the art of becoming my matador. Piercing the heart with that double-ended sword you wield."

Hannibal hesitates, as if there was another word tickling the tip of his tongue. But then he swallows it down, keeping it for himself and offering Will nothing more than a hurt look before he turns to leave Will with his thoughts.

 

* * * * *

 

"I was trying to protect you," Miriam says even before Jack can turn on the lights in her apartment. 

"You should get some rest," Jack tells her gently. "You don't have to explain."

"I do," she insists, shoulders still trembling from the hours she had to spend in the cold tank. "Dr. Lecter," she starts and then swallows nervously. "He almost killed you once. You almost died, Jack. I almost died. I wasn't going to let him succeed. Not after what we've been through. I wasn't going to let Will play the part he so poorly followed through the last time. He can't be saved, Jack. I've told you before. He won't ever let you save him from Hannibal."

"I know that now," Jack admits, feeling old and defeated. "I let him go, Miriam. I let Will go to save you. I couldn't let you down again." 

She stares at him with wide angry eyes as he holds his head down.

But then her brows soften. 

"Thank you, Jack," she just says and steps closer to lovingly brush her thumb over Jack's cheek.

He wraps his arms around her body, still not as warm as it should be, and vows to ensure that this was the last time Hannibal had either of them on the verge of death. Hannibal ... or Will. 

 

* * * * *

 

"I might try some fishing tomorrow," Will says as he steps out on the porch a while later. The sun's low on the horizon and Hannibal's got his collar propped up to protect his neck from the wind. "I'd rather try my luck here than have any of the locals go missing."

"I'm in danger of being repetitive," Hannibal admits, "but I have always been fond of your humor. Even your sarcasm to a degree. They have a very specific charm whose spell I can't deny to have fallen under, Will."

"You always say my name as if I was in danger to forget it," Will starts. "I don't believe there is a reason for it?" he wonders.

"Our name, given we identify with it," Hannibal explains, "is the most personal word that can be spoken in our presence. It creates atmosphere. Builds trust. You may feel tempted to argue that terms of endearment could serve as replacements. Most of the times though, they are impersonal and interchangeable. And they aren't without undertones of belittlement. Or selfish purposes. There is both intimacy and respect in calling people by their first name."

"Hannibal is an unusual name," Will says, fully aware of how he lets the mention of Hannibal's name linger between them. Of how he lets the implication of the significance linger between them. "Have you ever had troubles identifying with it?"

"As a boy, I have always found it to be quite serious," Hannibal says, eyes on the lake, the darkening water stretching and sprawling in front of them. "But I have memories of Mischa speaking it in the most playful manner. It's when I've come to terms with it. I've only started liking it years later. I believe around the time when it came to be associated with your friendship."

"I don't think it's fair to burden others with that responsibility," Will contemplates. 

"Don't we entrust others with the sanctity of our names just as much as we entrust them with the mystery of our selves?" Hannibal wonders. "With the secrets of our past?"

"Hannibal the cannibal," Will recalls. "Not much sanctity left."

"I'm compartmentalizing," Hannibal says.

"Then we have something in common," Will tells him.

"There is little cure for the discomfort of cognitive dissonance," Hannibal muses. "Only strategies to reduce it."

"Have you known people living with it?" Will asks. 

"There is correlation between ambiguity tolerance and the ability to endure cognitive dissonance," Hannibal says. 

"I thought it had been established that those may be alien concepts for me," Will reminds him. 

"I believe that I have been mistaken in my past assessment," Hannibal admits. 

"A rare confession," Will interjects. 

"The fact that you are here testifies to your abilities to tolerate both, dissonance and ambiguity, within your beliefs and your actions," Hannibal goes on, ignoring Will's interruption.

"There are no strategies for reduction in my case," Will tells him. "My beliefs and my actions have drifted so far apart, I have started doubting that they even relate."

"This is not quite the place to linger," Hannibal says out of context as he overlooks the area around the house. It's odd to Will, hearing him say these words while looking as comfortable as he does in any place. Neither plagued by worries nor rush.

"I didn't plan to stay here for long," Will tells him.

"I'm sure Jack will look into your history in order to find us," Hannibal says. "First thing on his list, I assume."

"Of course, he will," Will agrees. "There is no official record of this shop though," he adds. "This place hasn't been a legal business long before we came here."

Hannibal smiles in his usual manner between amusement and simple delight. "A place between worlds," he says gently. "As ambiguous as the state of its visitors."

"I don't think I'm between places," Will admits. 

"No," Hannibal agrees, face falling into a more serious expression. "We are our own place now. And we chose to share it. What you decide to keep from me here and what value it may hold, falls beyond my judgment."

"Beyond your judgment, but not beyond your pain?" Will wonders. "You've never not been hurt by my rejection, Hannibal. Nor have you ever failed to label it betrayal."

"You are more concerned with your rejection of me than I am," Hannibal tells him. "I will not argue your reasons, Will. I won't justify your actions in order to solve your mental contradictions. Your inner struggle. I have given you nudges for the longest time now. Whether you take the plunge will be up to you," he says and then steps back inside.

Will remains on the porch, standing in the wind, calmly watching the sun set in the west as it paints the sky red.  

 

* * * * *

 

"We're going to be okay," Margot says as she watches Alana pace up and down the room.

"My reputation is shattered," Alana reminds her. "My life. Our lives. He will keep his promise. He will kill me."

"FBI's looking for him," Margot tries. "He needs to run first. And as fast as he can."

"Not him," she argues. "Me. I have to run fast."

"Will won't let him kill you," Margot offers. 

"He's gone, Margot," Alana reminds her. "If he's with Hannibal, we have only God left to pray to."

"We survived Mason," Margot says. "We will survive Hannibal. I promise you."

"Can you hold yours?" Alana asks. "As vigorously as he tends to his?"

"We're Vergers, Alana," Margot says. "We don't back down."

 

* * * * *

 

"I don't know if I appreciate this new habit of you running from me," Will says as he closes the door behind him. Hannibal has left his jacket on a rusty hanger and has found himself a book to pass the time, settled into an antique love seat that Will's father once picked up from an auction.

"New?" Hannibal asks, looking up at Will. 

"This revived habit then," Will corrects himself. 

"Some thoughts need not to be disturbed," Hannibal tells him. 

"Yours or mine?" Will asks. 

"I don't think it matters as I believe them to be very much the same concern." Hannibal closes the book and crosses his legs. He gestures to an old armchair, worn out and dusty, opposite from his own. 

As Will sits down, he can't fight that hesitant smile over finding himself sitting across from Hannibal once more. The flickering light of an old lamp illuminating only the area around them. 

"If I was to ignore the smell," Will says absently, "of mothballs and salt. Smoke an oil. I'd be tempted to call this another session."

"Anything in particular you'd like to talk about?" Hannibal asks, lacing his fingers in his lap as he leans back. 

"May I be blunt, doctor?" Will asks, attempting to hide his nervousness under layers of sarcasm and role play.

"I insist," Hannibal just says, humoring him with an encouraging hand wave. 

"I gain leverage the closer we get," Will starts hesitantly, desperately trying not to feel like his fifteen year old self, being sat down to have _The Talk_. "The more intimate we get." He holds tight onto his own fingers, mirroring Hannibal unwillingly. His voice has lost all the spite he carried with him all day. Sounds even dull to him, despite the jitter and the strain. "It's quite addictive, to be honest," he goes on. "And yet I know it doesn't come with a price. And that it might as well be my life."

"You don't fear me as much as you fear yourself," Hannibal reminds him. "Becoming me."

"I have already become you," Will admits and it's so heavy on his tongue to spell out these words, he feels as if he might choke on their heft. "It doesn't matter what reasons I find. Or how harshly I despise myself for it. I'm past that fear. It has overtaken me."

"How does it feel to have reached the other side?" Hannibal asks, as if he wasn't subject of the conversation. "I assume it would be a relief. Your worst-case-scenario may have rained upon you, yet it left you dry."

"It has left me spiraling," Will corrects. 

"What keeps you from seeing where it'll take you?" Hannibal wonders. "From wading into the stream?"

"We can't be the same and still ache for the other," Will says and then wastes a single thought on what Bedelia might be up to as they speak. Wouldn't she be proud of them finally addressing their shit? "We cannot be searching for what we already hold," he says boldly, shaking off any distracting images. "I don't see how that can be," he struggles and then opts for the least fitting word that comes to his mind, "real." 

"I don't believe in relationships as means to complete the self," Hannibal says after a short moment of contemplation. "I don't necessary believe that relationships serve purposes. Nor friendships. We are both respectively flawed. Imperfect. And as we see the other for who they are, their true self, or as we let ourselves be seen, how we relate is irrelevant. We relate. A fact out of reach for the conscious. Explaining to ourselves how this relationship came to be and why it might be reasonable, is only the conscious mind reacting to what it is already done."

"And what's done is done? Is that it?" Will asks skeptically.

"You're struggling over thoughts on how to shape the relationship that came to be. How to act on it," Hannibal says. "You busy yourself not only with justifying but with developing. All while you refuse to acknowledge its existence in the first place. Your dissonance is no surprise."

"What do you want me to do?" Will presses, impatience rinsing through his joints as if Jack was standing behind him. "Put a nameplate by the door? Lecter and Graham? Name the boat after you? Start calling you something other than my friend? Something other than the man who almost murdered me. Twice?" 

"Language can be such a hazard, can't it?" Hannibal says. "Words, labels, translations. The Japanese have a more profound understanding of human connection."

"Nakama?" Will recalls.

"Koi No Yokan," Hannibal tells him. "Sensing that falling in love is inevitable after being introduced."

"Love at first sight?" Will asks. 

"Just a faint sense of the inevitable," Hannibal corrects.

They look at each other for longer than Will can remember having held eye contact with anyone for the past year. A look bursting at the seams, full of uncomfortable intimacy and a screaming gravity. And the faint sense of the inevitable. 

"I believe it was one of your struggles, whether to physically express what cannot be put into words," Hannibal says eventually. "One of the things you may consider preferable not to share."

"Would I be spending the night with Hannibal Lecter the psychiatrist or the The Chesapeake Ripper?" Will says with a mocking tone. Deflecting. Defying. More spite. 

"I can assure you that the options of who I would be spending the night with are exponentially more hazardous than whatever you are trying to compartmentalize with those two categories."

"Because I'm unstable?" Will asks, traces of anger warming his feet. 

"Because you have not revealed yourself entirely," Hannibal tells him. "Not to me. Not to the world."

"I thought you'd see me," Will dares him. 

"Who you could be," Hannibal says. "Who you crave to be. And fear to be."

"Do you think I could exceed the realms of the Ripper?" Will wonders.

"What your capable of knows no limits," Hannibal says. "You are your only prison. Shed it, Will. Even if it'll strike me down."

"Who did Alana sleep with?" Will asks. 

"Is that important to you, Will?" Hannibal wonders. "Somehow, I assume you'd be more comfortable if I'd tell you she went to bed with the Ripper. Would that ease your jealousy?" 

"No," Will says, unable to stop those two letters from slipping out. He discards any temptations of explaining or excusing himself. After all, it was him who asked to be blunt. And Hannibal who approved. Who looks at him now. A little puzzled. Genuine curiosity flashing over his face. It reminds Will of Baltimore even more than the arrangement of their conversation. 

"Shall we then?" Hannibal asks after his moment of consideration. Of observation.

"Shall we?" Will scoffs. "That's it? That's what you're asking me? _Shall we?_ " 

"Wade into the stream?" Hannibal offers. 

All Will can do for a while is stare and let a million thoughts run through his head in spurred on chaos. If he would try to extract only one distinct thought from the bulk of judgments, worries, contemplation and perceptions, he would fail miserably. It all blurs and smudges into loud obscurity before even the noise fades, leaving him with nothing but empty silence in the night of his mind.

"I want you to grant me the relief of that breath," Will says. "I want you to leave me intact." 

Uncommonly for their usual sessions, it's Hannibal who moves to stand and roam the room, granting his thoughts a more dynamic expression. 

"It's dangerous to get what you really want", Hannibal says then, coming to stand in front of the window, in front of his own reflection in the dim light as nothing lingers behind the glass but darkness. "Have you considered what you'll do afterwards?" he asks, repeating the question he dangled over Mason's head once. 

"I may have given it some thought," Will tells him. 

"Would you seize the moment and strike back?" Hannibal asks. "Snatching my throat with a quick jab?"

"Only you could light up at the idea," Will remarks. 

"I have a deep appreciation for all your fantasies, Will. Don't you know by now that my interest in your life is far greater than my interest in your death?" Hannibal wonders. "I wish you'd feel the same. About either of us."

"Maybe I'm still processing. Us being on the same side," Will says, finding a spot just behind Hannibal, watching their mirror images being so close. Only separated by their pride. He moves his hand past Hannibal's shoulder to let his palm rest against the glass. "You know how Jack used to say that we were different sides of the same coin?" Hannibal meets his gaze in the reflection. He doesn't move though, doesn't dodge Will's proximity. "What if I have internalized that concept to the point where I deem it impossible for us to be even."

"When Jack first told me about you, I had a vague idea of what your perception of this world would look like," Hannibal tells him. "I was curious and yet I had no idea of the potential you held. You know I am a man of the arts, Will. You know I possess all the qualities one needs for creation. Imagination. Creativity. But could I have ever build a more interesting or captivating version of you in my mind? No."

"A less complicated one?" Will asks.

"You're not complicated, Will," Hannibal assures him. "Life has put you in a complicated dilemma. You're coping." 

"Is there ever an end to the act of coping?" Will wonders. 

"Acceptance," Hannibal offers. "Radical acceptance."

"Even those who practice radical acceptance need to cope wit the pain. They're just less prone to additional suffering," Will argues. 

"You cope well with pain," Hannibal tells him. "It's how you attempt to cope with suffering that causes you distress."

"Aspirin is how I cope with pain," Will says. He's surprised by the little smile his remark coaxed out of Hannibal. "If violence is a language, pain is how we attribute meaning."

"Pain is an effective signifier," Hannibal adds. "It points us to the most revolutionary changes."

"You have caused me so much pain," Will reminds him. "These changes, they have made me numb to their meaning. Made me deaf to what you're saying. I wonder if you're still holding out for an answer." As he speaks those last few words, Will tilts his head to let Hannibal feel his breath on the back of his neck. 

"May I see it?" The questions feels thinner than all of Hannibal's words he's ever spoken in the presence of Will. He even turns his face to meet his eye instead of watching Will in the reflection. "The scar," Hannibal clarifies.

"I wondered when you'd ask," Will says, voice think and filled with the vulnerability of past anger. Past contempt. "Show me yours and I show you mine?" Will suggests and puts his other hand on Hannibal's back, lets his palm smooth the fabric of his sweater. A shaky breath escapes his lips over the contact, softly blowing over Hannibal's skin right under his ears. The verger crest burns underneath his palm flaring up to the rhythm or his stirring heart. 

A single nod, barely there, is the only answer Will receives. Enough though, to make Will's fingers leave damp prints in a thin film of sweat as he retrieves his hand from the glass. 

Hannibal takes it upon himself to peel his sweater over his neck and head, but Will turns him then so he can unbutton the shirt he's wearing underneath himself. 

Button for button, Will faces all his doubts and fears, and all his valuable hesitations, one by one. When he eventually helps Hannibal shrug the shirt off, Will has forgotten about anxiety and spite. He struggles to recognize himself as he runs his hands of over Hannibal's bare skin, his upper arms and shoulder. It doesn't take more than a gentle nudge to make Hannibal turn, leaving Will face to face with the pattern of scars on Hannibal's back. 

In his fingers, Will finds the stinging urge to scratch the skin, claw at the crest so violently until it won't be recognizable anymore. 'Think about me,' Margot had told him, and Will finds himself not only thinking about her, but picturing her at his side. 'The blood of the covenant,' he hears her cooing into his ear. 'Welcome to the family,' she tells him with a wink before Will can shake her off. 

Hannibal stands as still as a human heart in the middle of the Norman Chapel during a Palermo night long gone. And Will runs his hands over his back as if he was searching for a heartbeat. 

He doesn't dare to put his lips on the healed wounds, not because of the theatrics he despises, but because he wouldn't be able to stop himself from sinking his teeth into the skin. Rip out patches of flesh to leave his own scars over Mason's mark. 

Despite his better judgment, Will takes a step closer nonetheless. Lets his forehead rest between Hannibal's shoulder blades. Lets their hips align. 

With his face so close Hannibal's skin, he can feel his own hot breath, feverish and frantic. Will can't pinpoint what got him so riled up, can't put his finger on the cause of his anger, his frustration, his unspeakable need. 

He thrusts his hips up against Hannibal's a couple of times, seeking friction to relief some of the tension. Hannibal just takes it. No movement. No words. But he lets his head fall forward, chin so close to his chest as if he's ready to receive punishment. Or Salvation. It doesn't matter which one. They're all the same when it's the two of them.

Will grows restless. Impatient. He steadies himself with a tight grip around Hannibal's shoulder as he forces his other hand past his belt and down his jeans.

A pathetic groan escapes him over the first contact with his aching erection. 

"Get down on your fucking knees," Will says, not sure who he is anymore and why it doesn't feel foreign at all to command Hannibal around. Powerful is how he feels, reckless and careless and high. Like a man who's got nothing to lose. 

Hannibal goes down, sinking so infuriatingly graceful that Will adds a little pressure on his shoulder, pushing him onto his knees. 

He unbuckles his belt with stiff fingers and forces the zipper down by violently pulling on the edges that hold it together. 

Will takes himself in hand, firm grip, and steadies himself on Hannibal's shoulder with the other. As he starts to jerk himself off, head of his cock rubbing against the scarred crest right on the edge of painful, he digs his fingers into Hannibal's muscles until the flesh under his nails turns white and dark shadows appear on the flesh of Hannibal's back.

In the silence of the old shop, he can only hear his own panting breaths. But he can see from the movement of Hannibal's shoulders that he isn't completely unfazed by Will's sudden change either.  

The sound of Will's low whines fill the air the closer he gets to his own relief. He feels it down to his knees and toes, feels himself losing control over his body, chasing his climax as if he was chasing Hannibal himself.

Like a man possessed. 

It's rough and it's fast, and it bears as much anger as it does regret. Carries as much contempt as it does affection. It's not the right place, not the right time, it's un-discussed, it's under-negotiated. It's a mess of a relationship. A mess of an obsession. And wrong from all sides.

Will bites his lips to keep himself from moaning, his own voice echoing way too loud in his ears. 

With no one to join him. 

Hannibal takes it still. Takes it quietly. Breaths coming faster, a little deeper than usual but Will can only imagine that his heart must beat as fast as his own. Must beat as strong as his own, hammering in his chest. There's no evidence of it though aside from how tight Hannibal clenches his fists at his sides as his shoulders absorb the sway of Will's clumsy stance. 

It doesn't take too long until Will can feel his orgasm building, too fast for a man his age, too desperate, too tense. The first wave hits him like a shock, body tensing all over, before he trembles. He falls forward, braces himself roughly on Hannibal's body and paints the Verger crest with creamy white stripes that run down Hannibal's back in thick lines. 

Hannibal holds out for another second, long enough for Will to empty himself over the scars. But the last series of aftershocks haven't even passed before Hannibal hauls himself up, turns as he rises and grabs Will's arm painfully hard. He pulls him close, then yanks him around so fast, Will can barely get a hand on his jeans to keep them from slipping over his hips.

Before he can process what's happening, Hannibal shoves him against the window, the cold glass hitting Will's back so violently he fears for a moment he'll fall through. He tries to fight Hannibal off, but his hand slips from his shoulder, still wet from his own mess and despite his better knowledge he can't convince his other hand to let go off his jeans, desperately trying to preserve some dignity after all. Before he can exercise one proper move, Hannibal's got him cornered and Will's free hand pinned above his head. 

Within a split second, Hannibal forces his forearm against Will's throat, right under his chin and presses firmly until Will can only twitch helplessly and gasp for air like a fish on a hook. 

The room around him starts to spin when Hannibal put his mouth right to Will's ear. 

"Be careful what you wish for," he repeats, every word as hot and evil like a devil's breath. He presses just a little harder then, until pain starts to shoot up in Will's fingers, oxygen running low, setting his nerves on fire. 

Will squirms uncontrollable, panicked screams building in his chest but never reach his tongue. Hannibal watches him, face so close, it's merely a blur to Will. 

"Remember this moment, Will," Hannibal tells him, lips pressed against his temple and teeth scraping over his skin. "Remember this breath," he says and suddenly-

Will's free. 

Blood rushes through his body, pumps through his temples as if it was indignant and angry about the touch of Hannibal's lips. The air fills Will's lungs like an explosion, leaving Will panting even more than he did before.

And then, relief. 

Will's legs give in and he sinks down, eyes closed as he feels his own life washing over him. His muscles twitch, anxious to regain control, but his heart calms. Strong beats echo through his chest and Will can almost feel the dopamine rushing through his veins, causing warmth of inexplicable satisfaction to pool in his stomach. 

"You're a bastard, you know that," Will says, cautiously looking up at Hannibal. Even though the room is barely lit, he has to blink a couple of times before he can make out the shape of Hannibal's back a couple of feet in front of him. The traces of Will's possessive outburst still visible, the tension in Hannibal's shoulder subsides.

Will extends his hand even before Hannibal can react. But once he's stood in front of him, face and hair just as disheveled as Will's, there's no hesitation before Hannibal helps him back on his feet. 

"Shall we?" Will asks once they're eye to eye again. 

Hannibal just looks at him, brow raised and head tilted. 

"I told you I had given some thought to what I would do after you'd leave me intact," Will tells him and then leans in, knees weak and feet shuffling to hold his balance. He lets his lips brush over Hannibal's for a first taste, a hand coming up to the back of Hannibal's neck so he can't escape when Will lets his hunger take over.

There is no need for it though, because Hannibal answers that first tender kiss with a firm press of his own. His lips seeking Will's with the same urgency and yearning.

He holds Will steady as they melt into each other, hard lines softening all over as the tension leaves their bodies through hurried breaths. Will loses himself in the sensation of Hannibal's lips. Loses himself in the touch, in his taste, in the threats that linger on the tip of his tongue from where Will collects them and swallows them whole.

As they stand there, embracing each other, finding each other, moving together in ways only lovers can, Will realizes with growing unease that Chiyoh was right about him. That he doesn't understand any language as well as their violence. 

Not even their love.

 

* * * * *

 

"I found the house," Chiyoh says, watching Bedelia set down her glass. "The house Miriam described. The one by the sea. It's not far from the Atlantic. Only a few hours from here."

"Then I suggest we don't waste any time," Bedelia tells her. "I'll drive."

 

* * * * *

 

“Sheep are short day breeders, Will," Hannibal says somewhat out of the blue. He holds Will tucked under his shoulder, their backs resting against the old love seat. "Their mating season starts during the fall. When the days become shorter. It ensures that their young are born in the spring. Ever so rarely however, a lamb is born in the middle of winter. Do you know why their survival rate is so low?”

“You’d think food is short and bedding is sparse during the cold months,” Will guesses.

“The crucial hours, those that decide over life and death, are the ones between birth and the lamb being dry," Hannibal explains. "Most of all winter lambs die within the first hour of being born. Due to the hostile environment. You were a spring lamb, Will. You bathed in the warmth of justice and cuddled yourself into the hay of self-defense. When Margot’s killer was born, it was winter. And Mason was herding the sheep. She was still wet when she stumbled into my office, on wobbly legs and trembling all over. If it had been Mason’s choice, he’d left her out to freeze.”

“But you dried her off," Will says."Allowed the killer inside of her to live.”

“Come spring," Hannibal goes on, ignoring Will's remark, "winter lambs are often more resilient compared to the other young. Very clever and defiant. They are blessed with the spirit of survival," Hannibal muses before he pauses for a moment. "Alana once asked me to save your life," he goes on. "She made me promise. A promise I upheld." He lets his lips brush over Will's hair before he goes on. "I was always expecting you to ask me the same thing. I have never thought there'd be a scenario in which I'd agree."

"And yet here we are," Will says, turning to face Hannibal. "Although it wasn't me who asked you to spare her life. I was-," he holds out to deliberate the choice of his words. "I was the lure."

"Was it her idea?" Hannibal asks. "Margot's" 

"She only knew she couldn't trust you," Will tells him. "Whatever you would agree to. She couldn't trust you."

"So you willingly offered your life in exchange for hers," Hannibal concludes. 

"I was becoming what Jack already thought I was," Will says, settling back against Hannibal's chest. They're past the threat of irritation at the mention of Jack's name. "I guess since she killed her brother on your advice, I shouldn't have been surprised you'd hear her out. Be in her debt."

"Margot and me are even," Hannibal disagrees. "We have a very practical relationship. Very goal oriented, I might say. Our respective decisions were not bound to conditions. I will not revisit Alana's fate if circumstances change. Can you say the same about your decisions? Would you return if Jack asked you to? If he changed his mind about who you are?"

"There are parts of me that will always try to contextualize my decisions," Will admits. "Put them in perspective. Revisit the choices I made."

"Are you tempted to engage with these parts?" Hannibal asks. 

"Always," Will tells him honestly. 

"And yet here we are," Hannibal argues, echoing Will's words.

"There are parts of me that scream your name constantly," Will says far more quietly now. "There are parts of me that think of you every single second of each day. There are parts of me that yearn for those gentle touches that I find so hard to accept."

"And these parts," Hannibal starts. "Do they-," another short pause. Insecurity. "Call the shots?" he finishes, casual tone distracting from more serious emotions. 

"I don't believe in arrangements," Will says. "And I don't think you do either. There is no compromise to how you live. No compromise to your nature."

"Where does it leave us, Will?" Hannibal asks. 

"I'll leave it up to you to obsess over the balance of these parts," Will tells him. "I'll leave it up to your choices to not disturb it."

 

* * * * *

 

"You're not supposed to be up yet," Chilton says, moving around Freddie like a nervous chicken. 

"I have to talk to Jack Crawford," she insists. 

"They said it was a miracle you regained consciousness this soon," Chilton argues. "Take it slow."

"I know that Will Graham did this to me," Freddie says. "And once I'll remember that night, I'll prove it."

"You need rest to recover your memories," Chilton tells her. 

"I need a good therapist," she says. "Luckily, I know a great one. Specialized in memory loss _and_ Hannibal Lecter."

"What about me?" Chilton asks. "I am a fantastic therapist," he argues. "I am specialized in memory loss and Hannibal Lecter."

"Why don't you get some rest?" Freddie suggests. "You look a little-," she vaguely gestures up and down his face. "You know?"

 

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to everyone leaving comments and kudos. You make me so happy on a regular basis, I hope you know how much I appreciate you and your kindness!


	11. Chapter 11

"We have to find him, Jack," Alana tells him, her voice jumping back and forth between fear and determination. "Not just for the sake of our lives. But for what we'll leave behind if he shall get to us. We're ruined Jack. Even if we live, we have nowhere to go. We'll always be the ones who allowed him to slip away."

"Will used to say that my preoccupation with my reputation was pathological," Jack says. "Now, I don't think I have any reputation left to restore. There is no one left at the FBI to put their faith in me. Not even Miriam. Not after what Will did to her. What I couldn't stop him from doing," he admits. "Or you."

"We have faith in each other," Alana reminds him. "That's all we need."

"To catch Hannibal Lecter?" Jack asks. "To kill him?"

"To get to both of them," Alana just says. 

 

 * * * * *

 

"Do you ever think about those you left behind, Will?" Hannibal asks, wrapped up in his coat as he watches Will work. 

"Jack?" Will wonders. "Alana?" 

The rain hammers on the roof above them and the wind wails through the cracks of the old shop. 

"The people you have envied of their mediocrity?" Hannibal clarifies.

"No good would come out of it," Will tells him. 

"You have had countless opportunities to join them. Yet, you chose not to," Hannibal reminds him. "You have sabotaged your own quest for the ordinary."

"I thought we were done," Will just says. "Thinking of reasons to be with each other. You cannot make sense of this any more than I can, Hannibal." Hannibal throws him a bitter look in response. "You cannot explain me," Will goes on. "What I did."

"And why would I," Hannibal asks. "I've been satisfied just watching you become." 

"You're still trying to convince me of what has already happened. What was already decided," Will tells him. "It's one of your worst habits."

"Decisions are made in an instant," Hannibal says. "And then we waste hours justifying them to ourselves."

"Do you still justify your decisions?" Will asks. 

"Only those that took me back to you," Hannibal admits. "Those that only make sense when you're close."

"Then you should know you don't have to justify my own reasons for me," Will says and pauses to glance over at Hannibal. "You being close is enough. Will be enough."

They look at each other for as long as it takes for the assurance of the other's presence to settle in. 

"I'm empty, you know?" Will starts again. "Not just empty. Hollow. And you're the only thing filling me. My obsession with you is the only thing filling me. My thoughts of who you are, where you'll go and where you'll find your end."

"A rather unproductive obsession," Hannibal remarks. "Yet, I am surprised you'd admit to it."

"This place may have room for secrets. Baltimore had room for secrets. For lies and deceptions. For omissions. But there's no room for any of those between us. There has never been," Will tells him. "We always had to violently force them between us."

"Do you hate me, Will?" Hannibal asks after a second of consideration. 

"I never thought you would concern yourself with the question of whether or not I hated you," Will admits. "You and I both know that even in hatred I wouldn't let you go. That hatred is only the shortcut from fascination to obsession." 

"And you're not fascinated with me," Hannibal concludes. 

"You are fascinated with me," Will argues. 

"I am the path you take in order to align your present self with your historical self," Hannibal says.

"I don't want to be remembered being your patronage," Will tells him. "Your devotee."

"You want to wrestle me to the edge of the cliff," Hannibal says. 

"I want to wrestle you to the edge of virtue," Will corrects. "I want to succumb to darkness and the aesthetics of distress."

"What's stopping you?" Hannibal wonders. 

"Hannibal Lecter knows no shame," Will recalls his own words. "You cannot grasp its cording grip."

"You were shameless last night," Hannibal reminds him. 

"I was desperate," Will says angrily, taking a step towards Hannibal. "I was aching..."

 

 ~...~...~...~ 

 

... Fingertips, dry and warm ghosting over the skin of his naked chest. Will is struck by the peace he finds under Hannibal's touch. Struck by how little it fazes him. Intimacy re-defined so long ago. 

There's only little comfort in the contact, only little solace as Hannibal moves his hands down his stomach to cradle the scar in his palm.

"Look at me," Will demands, because there's more emotion in their looks than their skin.

"No glasses to shield you from being seen now," Hannibal remarks, voice low and quiet. But he won't disturb the calm. They're the storm now. And embrace at the core of chaos. Of disaster. They are the clouds looming heavily over the fields, the dark of the night and the fire tickling the fuse. They are the predator. And the world is their prey.

"We see each other with all our senses," Will says. "We no longer stumble through the maze of the other." Hannibal traces all the lines of his skin, causing the architecture of Will's body to sway with his every breath. 

"What would you offer me, Will?" Hannibal asks, teeth grazing over the edges of his hips, sharp bones under the bruised skin. "If I'd ask you for a taste."

"Are you asking me for an ear?" Will wonders. 

"Humor me, will you?" Hannibal asks so playful that Will is tempted to forget the cannibal between his sheets. 

"I don't make a good steak," Will just says. 

"I'm an excellent cook," Hannibal reminds him. 

"I guess every person has a few organs to spare," Will muses. "I just don't think you'd appreciate the gesture of me offering you my spleen. Or one of my testicles. I assume, you'd only be pleased with my heart."

"A true Valentines dish," Hannibal adds. 

"Haven't we had enough of each other's blood?" Will wonders. 

Hannibal moves his lips from Will's hip back to his navel, kisses the thickened skin beneath it. 'Less functioning', Will recalls, because he doesn't feel much of the gentle touch. 

"I'm not fond of puddles of blood," Hannibal whispers into Will's skin. "I don't appreciate the mess."

"You're fond of my blood," Will argues. 

"I am indeed," Hannibal admits. "If you ever have to die, Will," he adds. "I want for you to bleed out as you drown. I'd want the water to carry your taste for miles and miles. I want your death to spread like oceans. I want it to move further than the pain of your loss could ever reach. My pain, Will. I want your death smeared all over earth's surface. It's the only way I would allow you to go." 

"Part of me knows it's rather likely that you will kill me one day," Will starts. "It's who you are. And part of me feels the indignation of being your," he pauses and swallows bitterness once more, "your _victim_ ," he says eventually. 

"It concerns you, but it doesn't worry you," Hannibal reads him.

"Past and future are one now," Will just says. "I have been your victim. I have been your defier. I have died. I have lived through sanity and insanity. The present is always void of worries. It can only hold truth."

"So, you and me in this moment," Hannibal starts but lets the conclusion linger. Will uses a tender hand to tilt Hannibal's chin, to guide him back up his body until he can place his own lips on Hannibal's to find his truth. With his eyes closed and his mouth open, Will lets himself be devoured once more. 

There's no logic in his desire. None at all. And yet even the farthest corner of his mind doesn't object. Hannibal fills the silence in his conscience with the emotions he radiates. Never has he been more open to Will, never could he be read as clearly as now. Almost palpable, the satisfaction of their proximity. Their contact. A deep calm that spreads with a rumble through Hannibal's body. A raging dragon settling to sleep. The strong hand on Will's shoulder, a bracing grip, the hesitant reassurance of reality. Pride. And Hannibal's narcissism. His arms around Will, the erotic embrace with his mirror image.

And Will moans at the flash of associations. He clings to Hannibal all the same. In his arms his worst fear and his greatest addiction. The wonder of his own becoming. The trigger of his gun. So cold when left untouched, yet burning in the fire of Will's heat.

Hannibal's pensive. Calculating. With every touch and every kiss, he seeks out the most shy parts of Will's self and then revels in admiration of their innocence. Before he taints them into submission. And Will lets him. Lets Hannibal taste him just as he breathes, deep kisses over long breaths. Their bodies aligned, skin on scars and broken resistance. Hannibal moves with such grace, Will's quest for hard edges is rendered futile. 

Will shudders. Suddenly self-conscious over how he is not alone in his perceptions. Suddenly aware how insight and recognition has always run both ways when they were together. Secrets leaking through the cracks of their forts, the constant drip and drop of their innermost longings. Hannibal swimming in the melting shadows of Will's mind.

He lets his hands wander down Hannibal's body, over the round muscles on his shoulders, down the arch of his back and over the curve of his ass. Hannibal may be naked, but he doesn't seem vulnerable. Doesn't feel vulnerable. His confidence seems to just run through his fingers, through the veins of his hands. The hands of a killer. 

With the heat of their need trapped between their bodies, Will suddenly aches for winter. Aches for the silence of the snow covered fields in Wolf Trap. Aches for an escape from being desperately trapped between too much and not enough. Just as it has always been.

The closer he was to Hannibal, the more he'd seen, had felt, the more dangerous it had been. And yet it was never close enough, never dangerous enough. All of his crimes have been repellent and captivating. Gruesome and constructing. Desolate and beautiful.

Will's hunger for the contradicting has become so insatiable that before he knew it, he's started to yearn for pain just as much as satisfaction. He cannot find the same peace that Hannibal is relishing in as they lie this close. Instead there's war inside of Will, harsh and loud and rough. Traumatizing. Not only the worst of Hannibal's actions, but the temptation he himself presents. 

"I feel entirely too old for these longings," Will says quietly. "Too old and too broken."

Hannibal shifts his weight onto his elbow to look at Will, hovering above him like the residue of old nightmares after he's already woken up. "There's no age limit to sexual desire," Hannibal just says. 

"Maybe not," Will agrees. "But there is a taste-limit."

"Sexual taste is as divers as any," Hannibal says, dipping his head back down to kiss Will's neck.

"Not what I meant," Will says, pushing against Hannibal's chest gently. 

"What did you mean?" Hannibal asks. He's giving Will his full attention now. 

"There's only so far I can go without having violent flashbacks to what you did," he admits. "What I did. I can't shake my guilt. It's one thing to live with it. Celebrating it is a different thing."

"Is there a question in there, Will?" Hannibal wonders. "Or a decision?"

"Don't love me like I'm still young," Will demands in a harsh whisper. "Like I'm still innocent." 

"It wouldn't have crossed my mind," Hannibal tells him.

"Not even out of courtesy," Will wonders. 

"Never," Hannibal says and before will an react properly, he's being kissed again.

Hannibal sighs, purrs like a cat. Satisfaction spreading as he treats Will's lips like some delicate rare dish. Despite habit, despite instinct, despite lids as heavy as wet towels, Will keeps his eyes open.

Exhaustion washes over him, the anguish of their past, of their relationship. He's flooded with memories of their anger, their disappointments. What they did to each other, not only engraved on their skin but in their minds. And Will fears that once he'll give in, lets his eyes fall shut, that once he'll allow himself to subordinate perception under emotion, he'll change forever. As if even a second-long black out could turn a switch. Or align stars.

Will feels tired beyond compare. Tired of the pain he was put through. Tired of the crimes they're guilty of. Exhaustion slips into every single one of his cells, a deep-rooted plea to surrender to love after all. With no fight left in his fists, no tricks left in his sleeve, he feels all his defenses fall. 

So Will gives in eventually, resigns, and pulls Hannibal closer as he lets his eyes fall shut. Theirs isn't a romance. A love story by all means, but it will never conclude to a happily ever after. And Will is destined to find his peace not in satisfaction but resignation. So when he pushes his hips up against Hannibal's in order to gain some friction, it's only halfhearted and much colder than any of his touches before. 

He feels himself slipping not only from Hannibal's grip but from the grip of the world. The moment is filled with sanity as dry and crisp as hot sand. And Will longs for the fury and numbness of his madness. More than he longs for Hannibal's body. 

It's not him who feels hyper sensitive, it's everything around him that seems to move whenever he moves, a jolted silence and the stirred darkness. The air around him ripples with every one of Hannibal's quiet moans, the rusty bed beneath them wails in agony of being witness to Will's rebirth. 

Hannibal's lips move down Will's cheeks, to his ears and down his neck. Will tilts his head, gives him more space as he blankly stares at the bedroom wall. It's almost swallowed entirely by the darkness of the night, but Will can make out some nicks and cracks that make him feel a childish empathy with the plaster coat. 

The loneliness of the room's past creeps on Will and he shudders through it as if he was being caressed by a cold breeze. He takes shallow breaths under the weight of Hannibal's frame, the weight he missed to give him a form in return. 

Considering that Will knew what he was getting himself into, he should have given a thought to preparations. But this wasn't a walk down the aisle. If anything though, he knew since the moment he chose to conspire in Hannibal's escape the way he did that he was a dead man walking. And sex was the least of his concerns. 

"After everything," Will starts, still facing the damage of the wall. "After everything we did to each other. After everything we've seen the other do. And do for the other. Sleeping together starts to feel redundant."

"Not for me," Hannibal says, lips pressed against Will's shoulder, not too far from his bullet wound.

"No, not for you," Will agrees. "You're only satisfied after I've shared my everything with you. After you've seen me do everything."

"Is that another one of my bad habits?" Hannibal wonders. 

"Not as bad as my habit of sabotaging our relationship," Will admits. 

"Are we stopping here, Will?" Hannibal asks then. His muscles tense, his body getting ready to retreat.

"No," Will says, tired of postponing the inevitable when he could just, "get it over with." 

"Not the kind of participation I was hoping for," Hannibal tells him. 

"Is it ever?" Will asks. " Sufficient participation on my part?"

"Are you withholding from me again?" Hannibal wonders. "Not for the sake of protecting you, but for the sake to spite me?"

"Did you think I could be both?" Will asks. "A ruthless killer and a bold lover?" 

"That was certainly the impression I had," Hannibal tells him. 

Will lays his palm on the small of Hannibal's back and traces his spine upwards with his finger tips. "I've seen your seduction, Hannibal," he says. "I've let myself be seduced. Where is the space left there for my participation?"

"Use me as you have used me before," Hannibal offers. "As your excuse to allow yourself feelings you would otherwise suppress."

Will lets his hand follow its trail until his fingers bump into the soft hairline just above Hannibal's neck. And then he tightens his grip and faces Hannibal directly. "In that case," Will starts, his voice low and rasp as he carefully emphasizes each word that comes next. "Suck my dick, Doctor Lecter." 

Hannibal looks at Will. Not pleased, not curious. But satisfied enough with Will's choice to do just as he was advised to. He's about to dip down, when Will stops Hannibal with the hand on his neck. "Go slow," Will tells him, before guiding Hannibal's head down.

Will feels like a young boy playing with fire and unfiltered sexual excitement starts to pull him in for the first time that night.

Hannibal's breaths tease the path down his chest and stomach and Will can't stop himself from bucking his hips up even before Hannibal's put a hand on his cock. He can feel the warmth of Hannibal's mouth, anticipation building as Hannibal closes the distance between wet lips and hot skin.

'All men must die,' Will thinks before he lets his head roll back and submits to the pleasure he receives from Hannibal's tongue.

Just as Will had told him to, Hannibal goes slow. Softly mouthing around the crown with sharp teeth. There may have been a time when Will had flinched at the light scrapes, at the threatening proximity, but those times are long gone. His palm is dry and steady, following every movement of Hannibal's head with the patience of resignation. Hannibal swallows him down in the same manner he'd swallow another songbird. With elegance and reverence. With pleasure and delicate delight. 

He tastes Will with the tip of his tongue, eyes closed as he lets his senses guide his lips all the way down to the base. Will groans as he watches his cock slide in and out of Hannibal's mouth, whenever its head presses against the back of his throat. 

Despite his restrictive position, Hannibal doesn't lose his breath. He relishes in Will's surrender just as much as Will starts to relish in Hannibal's devotion. There's nothing left to suppress as Hannibal works his cock, raw and deep, in order to coax out Will's reckless abandon. 

Will's fingers twitch when he feels his orgasm build, slow but steady, and neither Will nor Hannibal have any interest in chasing it. Each of them just letting it happen. Waiting Will's body out. Waiting for the inevitable point of sensual saturation. 

Apart from smoking, Will has incorporated most unhealthy lifestyle choices into his daily routine. Painkillers and whiskey. Microwaved food and cheap coffee. It doesn't need a sophisticated pallet to know what he's doing to Hannibal's sensitive taste as he yields to overstimulated nerves and the climaxing pleasure.

He feels wrung out and dry long before Hannibal stops the tender suction and sweet torment of his gentle tongue. And when he lets Will's cock slip past his lips, it's already gone soft. 

Will keeps his hand on the back of Hannibal's neck until he's settled beside him. Until Will has had the chance to leave him with a fleeting kiss. 

"Are you going to return the favor?" Hannibal asks, all tousled hair and flushed cheeks around swollen lips. Almost vulnerable.

"You could say that," Will says. He pushes himself up and reaches for some long forgotten twenty-year-old Vaseline in the bedside drawer that he'd discovered earlier. After finding a comfortable position, with Hannibal's hips between his thighs, he dips two fingers deep into the thick jelly creme before bringing them around his body and between the cheeks of his ass. 

Will expects himself to be more tense when he pushes past his rim. Expecting himself to be more reluctant, but every inch of haptic exploration feels as natural and comfortable as tinkering with lures.

Hannibal watches him, one corner of his mouth curved to a somewhat proud smile. Curiosity that has turned into confident knowledge. Heavy knowledge. Rich and valuable. But not void of the wistfulness that comes with change.

His body relax with every passing second. The muscle memory of violent acceptance and fading ego establishing itself in Will's physicality. And with it, yearning emptiness spreads deep into his core. A hollow loneliness that knows only one suitable piece to fill him. 

"I don't remember ever rendering you speechless," Will says, imagining the image he must present. Equally enticing as the view Hannibal has offered Will before. 

Hannibal considers him for a moment, wrestling his thoughts but watching Will like a hawk. "I can assure you that there have been many times," Hannibal admits eventually. "I'm not surprised you weren't aware of them though."

Will puts his free hand on Hannibal's chest, steadying himself so he can meet his own thrusts with more precision. He can sense Hannibal's own anticipation, excitement and surprisingly a trace of impatience in Hannibal's racing heart.

"You have me now," Will says, speaking more quietly than before. Talking to himself as much as to Hannibal. Maybe even more so. "Fate and circumstance have made me yours. But I wasn't forced to enjoy it," he adds, reminded of when he first got a taste of who he was going to become. 

He twists his fingers one last time, feeling the stretch and his yielding body before he pulls out and wraps his hand around Hannibal's erection instead. Pulsing stiffness and burning heat meet his palm as Will moves it up and down Hannibal's length until it slides with ease. 

"You're mistaken, Will," Hannibal says, not interfering with how Will handles his body. "I have always been yours. You've just outgrown your fear of taking."

"I had to let it go," Will tells him. "Dead weight," he remarks and lines up Hannibal's cock with his loose rim. 

When Will sinks down, muscle straining to encompass Hannibal's body, his thighs tremble and he finds it more difficult than ever to hold Hannibal's gaze. He takes a deep breath, oxygen airing out his body and ridding him of all doubts. Gravity holds its promise and pulls them together, inch by inch, Hannibal fills him. Aching lust twists in Will's stomach, and he clenches experimentally to see whether or not Hannibal is immune to blatant cues of sexual needs.

He's not though. Hannibal moans and slams both his hands against Will's hips, fingers digging into the flesh of his cheeks. Holding Will in place. Keeping him spread and open with a tight grip, tautening the skin around Will's entrance like a tight leash. Leaving him unable to repeat the teasing move without any discomfort. 

Will can't bring himself to mind. He doesn't aim for this to be over sooner than necessary. Or possible. 

Hannibal matches his rhythm in strength and pace. And Will lets himself be chased every once in a while, prolonging their venture whenever Hannibal's thrusts falter in between his hunger and admiration as he watches Will move above him. 

Overwhelmed with the rewarding sense of power, the satisfaction of Hannibal's admission and his surrender to Will's wishes, Will only notices now that he's grown hard again too. His own cock standing firm yet touched-starved. 

He gives himself a few dry tugs, shuddering over how sensitive he still feels before he lets go of his cock to seek a feeling much more intense than his sexual cravings. His hands are steady and warm as he braces himself on Hannibal's chest, rolling his hips to give Hannibal a little distraction. He taps his way upwards, brushes the skin lightly until he can feel Hannibal's vigorous heartbeat pulsing under each palm on either side of his neck. There's no need to tighten his grip, to even press or twitch. 

"Is this how it's always going to be?" Hannibal asks, but he doesn't fight him. Instead, he tilts his head and shifts his chin, daring Will to choose his next move carefully. 

Will, however, doesn't bother with a reply, but leans down for a tender kiss. His lips seeking Hannibal's for comfort and confidence, eager tongue seeking their mixed taste. When they break apart, Will doesn't have to force himself to look at Hannibal anymore, he drinks up his gaze as if it was whiskey neat. He lets his hands slide around Hannibal's neck until his forearms rest on the mattress, anchoring himself in the gentle embrace. He rests his head against Hannibal shoulder and closes his eyes. 

As graceful and elegant as ever Hannibal manages to sneak one hand between them, delicate long fingers slinging around Will's cock, desperate to be touched again. They settle for a new rhythm, much slower, drawing out each and every thrust as they move against each other, with one another, almost every part of their body aligned. Skin on skin from head to toe, Will lets himself be seen and be known inside out. 

When Will comes, his body feels heavy and burnt out, yet hot, glowing and glimmering. A calm lingering heat burning deep in his core. Its ranging flames contained. Hannibal takes his time still, going as slow with his cock as he did with his mouth, forcing Will to the edge of bearable sensitivity. Denying him the relief of exhaustion for as long as Will takes it. Enjoys it. Spurring him on with hot breaths and wet lips right under Hannibal's jaw, asking for more. And more. Always more. 

Hannibal stills as he finally allows himself to go over the edge, pulling Will closer with strong arms, holding him tight as if he might slip away for real. Or might try to choke him a second time. With shaking lips, he places frail kisses all over Will's shoulder, desperate to hold onto the moment. Kiss by kiss. Second by second. 

Will still feels Hannibal softening inside him and Hannibal's lips in the curve of his neck when he gives in to sleep. Being stubbornly kissed and relentlessly held. As if he was both, sweet and dangerous. Ravenous and delicate. Feared and loved... 

 

~...~...~...~ 

 

"Bedelia Du Maurier has left town," Miriam says, hushed voice as to avoid drawing attention. "The FBI is looking for her." She holds out a thick brown envelope.

"And isn't that interesting," Freddie muses, taking the papers from her. "Vanishing just in time."

"Apparently Will Graham has made some accusations against her," Miriam goes on. "Right before his respective sudden disappearance. He said she was responsible for what happened to you. That she told Chiyoh what to do."

"I'm sure that's what he said," Freddie just says. 

"Jack could use some backing up," Miriam says, looking past Freddie into the distance. "Public endorsement." 

"In exchange for?" Freddie asks.

Miriam reaches into her pockets and reveals a set of keys to Freddie's eager gaze. "An exclusive look into Will Graham's house. Wolf Trap is all yours."

"I take it," Freddie says, smiling as she reaches for the keys. 

"What about Jack?" Miriam asks again. 

" 'Jack Crawford' ," Freddie starts. " 'FBI's only chance to catch Hannibal the Cannibal **™**? A gentleman agent about to ruin dinner.' Consider it written," she says and offers Miriam a wink.

 

* * * * *

 

"Yes," Alana answers annoyed after the phone had been ringing relentlessly for several minutes. 

"Alana," Hannibal says, carefully pausing to let his voice sink it. Alana freezes immediately, ears peaking as to pick up any sound coming from the other side. Any glimpse of incriminating evidence. Any allusion to a location. "I've called not to alarm you," he tells her. "Not to disturb or torment your fragile rehabilitation. Not physical this time. But mentally. I'm calling to give you peace, Alana. I have no plans to come for you. I have been persuaded to understand that the world is more interesting with you in it." There's a moment of silence on both ends. Hannibal, curious if she was going to be brave this time again. If she was going to engage despite her better knowledge. Her past experience. Alana, hesitant to speak, scared that she'll miss some detail. Or that in her anger, she'll convince Hannibal that her death may be more thrilling than her tolerated existence. "You are a smart girl, Alana," Hannibal says eventually. "Be sure to extend me the same courtesy."

 

* * * * *

 

"Are you ready to go, Will?" Hannibal asks as he watches Will take a long last look at his father's old business. 

"How come that some places feel more like graveyards than homes?" Will wonders. "How come abandoning them feels like desecration."

"Don't worry about it this soon," Hannibal says gently. "We may come back before you know it?"

"For Bedelia?" Will asks, craning his head back so he can catch Hannibal's gaze for a second. "For Jack? Or Freddie Lounds?" 

"I always keep my promises," Hannibal tells him. "Do you?"

"I never make promises," Will just says, tearing his eyes from the rundown shop in front of him.

 

* * * * *

 

"What brings _you_ here?" Margot asks upon seeing who's waiting for her in front of the stables. 

"A hunch," Chilton says with a casual shrug of his shoulders and a smug smile around his lips. 

"A hunch for what?" Margot asks unimpressed. 

"The hunch that I've approached the wrong sibling in the past," Chilton tells her. "Or even the wrong spouse." ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading. As you may have noticed, I find it awfully difficult to give Will and Hannibal a happy end in the classical sense. I do think the potential for Will on his dark side are endless. And that he is just as dangerous as Hannibal. Even feared by him whether he'd admit to it or not. After all, Hannibal can't really know what he'd unleashed.  
> I feel like they are that couple that has literally done every awful thing to each other and just reach a point where love is not what they ascend to, but all they have left to do. I couldn't bring myself to write them any other way.  
> I wanted to give myself the option to return to this fic if I wanted to and write a second part. So it's not neatly tied up. Basically they're all chasing each other by now :D  
> I wish I could have updated a little more frequently towards the end, but it just wasn't possible. I hope you forgive me for abandoning a schedule.  
> I have received so many wonderful comments over the past months, I still find it hard to put my gratitude into words.  
> Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again for reading and for supporting me for so long now!
> 
> Talk to me on [tumblr](http://werebird.tumblr.com) ! :)


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